


On the Path

by Luke1813



Series: On the Path Series [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fantasy, Murder Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 128,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24163198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luke1813/pseuds/Luke1813
Summary: A teenage witcher leaves Kaer Morhen and strikes out on his own for the first time. Soon, he’s entangled in a mystery in a foreign kingdom where murder abounds and everyone seems to have secrets. Follow him on his initial adventures as he tries to find himself and his place in the world. Originally posted March 2019. Warning: story is not 100% canon-compliant.
Series: On the Path Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743808
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

Author’s Notes (originally posted March 2019):

Story Synopsis: A teenage witcher leaves Kaer Morhen and strikes out on his own for the first time. Soon, he’s entangled in a mystery in a foreign kingdom where murder abounds and everyone seems to have secrets. Follow him on his initial adventures as he tries to find himself and his place in the world.

Warnings: This story contains scenes of child abuse (physical and emotional), violence, and strong language. It is not 100% canon compliant. There also may be some very minor spoilers of the books and games. In this tale, the Axii Sign does not exist. While it may be an interesting game mechanic, I simply don’t have the talent to reconcile all of the plot inconsistencies that it creates. I learned that through writing my first story, ‘The Wolf Lives.’ See my Bio for a fuller explanation. Also, witchers will only have swords on their backs – no crossbows.

Words of Gratitude: I was first introduced to Geralt of Rivia in April of 2016, and three years later, I am still intrigued by him and his universe. I believe that is a testament to the incredibly talented and dedicated professionals at CD Projekt Red, who made such an amazing game with such interesting and complex characters. Experiencing their game helped me to discover and pursue this new hobby of creative writing – a hobby that I find both enjoyable and rewarding. And for that, I am incredibly grateful. So, thank you, CD Projekt Red. Thank you for pouring so much passion into your games that it spills over onto the rest of us.

Disclaimer: This work is based on the characters and universe created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski and/or CD Projekt Red. It was undertaken strictly for my enjoyment and hopefully for yours, as well.

oOo

On the Path

Chapter 1

_As large snowflakes fell from a slate-gray sky, the witcher glared at the shivering and sniffling, little boy riding next to him and then smacked him hard across the back of the head._

_“What did I tell you about crying, boy?” the witcher growled. “I don’t wanna hear it.”_

_“I’m…I’m not,” stammered out the lad. “My…my nose is runny…is all.”_

_The tiny child didn’t dare look at the witcher. He just kept his eyes forward, focused on the snow-covered path in front of him, and curled up further into his overly-large coat. He was thankful that the cowl covered his face so that the witcher couldn’t see his tears. He hadn’t meant to cry, but he’d once again started thinking of his mother, and then the tears had come unbidden._

_The boy was expecting another slap to the head, but, after a moment, when the blow didn’t come, his curiosity got the better of him. He turned his head ever so slightly and glanced quickly at the monster-slayer. The pair of cat-like eyes staring back at him sent a tremor through him, and he instantly looked away. Even though the two of them had been traveling together for several weeks, the strange man still terrified the boy. The reins of the donkey that he was riding were tied to the pommel of the witcher’s saddle. Otherwise, the boy would’ve spurred his mount and courageously fled into the high mountains on either side of the trail. Or, at least, that was what he kept imagining over and over in his mind, but deep-down he knew it was a lie. It wasn’t the reins - but rather fear - that kept the boy on the back of the donkey and right next to the witcher. He could still remember the thrashing he’d received from the foul-smelling man when he’d tried to sneak off their first night together, and he didn’t want to experience that again._

_The witcher pulled up on his reins, stopping both mounts. He sat there in silence until, finally, the boy peeked out from behind his cowl. The monster-hunter stared down at the boy and shook his head with a look of contempt on his face._

_“Take my advice. You’d best toughen up, real quick-like. You think these last few weeks have been rough? You think I’m a son-of-a-bitch? Trust me, boy, you ain’t seen nothing.”_

_Suddenly, the howls of numerous wolves echoed down out of the mountains. The boy went wide-eyed and immediately looked to his right, frantically searching the tree line and expecting the pack of predators to attack at any moment. As his heart started pounding in his chest, he squinted his eyes and rapidly shifted them back and forth, trying to see the beasts through the twilight. He almost fell off of his mount when he suddenly heard another howl coming from right behind him. He quickly turned to see the witcher with his head raised, howling loudly at the darkening sky. Once he was done, he looked down at the boy and let out a cruel laugh._

_“Better get used to wolves, boy,” said the witcher with a smile – though, to the lad, it looked more like a sneer. “This is gonna be your home - your pack - for years to come…if you live, that is.”_

_Less than an hour later, the witcher and the boy came around a bend in the mountain trail, and the lad suddenly and audibly inhaled. Off in the distance, high up in the mountains between two, tall peaks was the biggest castle he’d ever seen. Truthfully, it was the only castle that he’d ever seen, but the keep in front of him was even bigger than the ones he’d imagined when his mother had told him all those bedtimes fairytales of valiant knights rescuing fair maidens. Even though he couldn’t see the details of the castle due to the distance and the encroaching darkness, there was still just enough light that he could see the keep’s silhouette against the evening sky, and he was in awe. As he continued to stare at the shadowy and foreboding structure, a shiver ran up his spine, and he, once again, tried to curl up as tightly as possible inside of his large coat. He somehow knew that the castle to which they were heading would be nothing like the ones in his mother’s stories._

_“It’s called Kaer Morhen,” said the witcher, as if reading his mind. “The School of the Wolf. And, if you want, I’ll let you cry now. Because you’d be bawling if you knew what was in store for ya.”_

_The boy swallowed and glanced at the witcher before quickly turning his attention back to the keep in front of him. In fact, for the rest of the ride there, he never took his eyes off of the giant, stone edifice. He lost track of the time, and before he knew it, the two of them were riding through the outer gate and into the lowest level of the fortress - a level that housed horses’ stables and a large corral._

_After the witcher led the two mounts towards a feeding trough full of hay, he looked at the boy and said, “Dismount and follow me.”_

_The two had only walked a few paces when out of the darkness – as if he had materialized out of thin air – approached a large man in black armor. His hair and beard matched the color of his leather armor, and the flames from the nearest brazier reflected off his cat-like left eye. But it was his mutilated face that the little boy noticed the most. It was a face that made him swallow hard. Three long, jagged scars ran from above the stranger’s right eye down towards his chin, with two of the scars - thick, pink, and worm-like - cutting through his black beard. There was an eye-patch where his right eye should have been, and both his nose and mouth were completely disfigured by the third scar that ran down the middle of his face._

_“What the hell?” said the witcher in black, stopping in front of the tiny boy._

_He reached down and jerked the cowl off of the boy’s head. His one good eye took in the lad’s sandy-colored hair and green eyes. He stared at the kid for a moment, then over to the other witcher before shaking his head._

_“What were you thinkin’? He looks like he’s barely out of his nappies. You know we don’t take ‘em this young.”_

_The first witcher shrugged._

_“It was a…complicated situation,” he replied. “Besides, what does it really matter? Young, old…most likely, he’ll die, just like the rest.”_

_In response, a noise came from the scarred witcher’s throat – to the lad it sounded like a growl - and then he peered down at the boy again._

_“How old are you?”_

_The boy couldn’t answer. It was all he could do to even breathe. The man in front of him was like something out of his worst nightmares. Suddenly - almost faster than his eyes could even detect - a hand came out of the darkness and grabbed him by the ear._

_Immediately, tears came to his eyes and a whine escaped from his throat as he felt his ear being twisted, but before he even had the chance to cry out any further, the witcher in black had his jaw in a vice-like grip. He knelt down and got face-to-face with the boy. He was so close that the lad almost gagged from the man’s breath._

_“Look at me, boy. Look me in the eye,” he said very slowly._

_It took all of the courage that he could muster, but eventually, the boy made and then maintained eye-contact with the man in front of him._

_“When anyone here asks you a question, we expect a verbal response. You will give us the respect we’re due,” the man in black ordered. “Do you understand me?”_

_The boy – with his eyes still wide - quickly nodded. The witcher shook his head, a sneer crossing his mangled mouth, and twisted the boy’s ear a bit harder, causing the lad to cry out._

_“I will ask again – do…you…understand?”_

_“Ye..Yes!” cried out the boy._

_“Good. You’re not a mute after all,” said the black-haired man. “Now, second lesson – you will address everyone who wears one of these medallions around their neck as ‘Master.’ We have earned that title. For example, I am Master Kalen. And if you don’t know or can’t remember a name, then you simply call us ‘Master Witcher.’ Do you understand?”_

_“Ye..ye..yes,” stuttered the boy with a nod of his head._

_Immediately, he cried out in pain as his ear was twisted again._

_“You are stupid. Yes…what?”_

_The boy’s eyes were wide with both pain and confusion._

_“The answer is, ‘Yes…Master Kalen,’” instructed the witcher. He then slightly lessened the tension on the boy’s ear. “Now, say it.”_

_“Yes…Master Kalen,” said the lad._

_“Just how old are you, boy? And you’d best remember the proper way to answer.”_

_The boy swallowed and tried to catch his breath._

_“F-f-five…Master Kalen.”_

_Kalen cursed, glared at the other witcher, and shook his head._

_“And do you have name?” he asked, now looking again at the boy._

_The child nodded and told him his name, after which the black-haired witcher released his grip on the boy and slowly stood._

_“You can forget your last name, boy…and your family – forever,” he said, staring down at the shivering child in front of him. “They obviously didn’t want you…otherwise, fate would’ve never brought you here. From this day forward, you’ll be one of us…or you’ll die trying. So, I don’t wanna ever hear you say your last name again, got it?”_

_The little boy – whose name was Geralt - swallowed, slowly nodded his head, and said, “Y-yes…yes, Master Kalen.”_

oOo

_Aedirn; Winter 1193_

Geralt clenched his jaws as he stared down at the objects in his hands – the wolf-head medallion in his left and the two, witcher potions in his right. He’d sworn to himself that he’d never use either, but here he was, about to go back on his word.

“Damn it,” he whispered in disgust.

When he’d left Kaer Morhen with his face bloodied and bruised, he’d had but a single and solitary mission. And that mission had certainly not involved taking on a witcher’s contract. But after several weeks of living in the world, he had realized that he needed coin if he was going to do more than simply and barely survive. He could – and did – find sustenance in the forests, trapping the occasional rabbit or squirrel, but even that had been slow going. Now that the winter season had arrived, there were no nuts or berries to be foraged, and many of the woodland animals had already either migrated south for the winter or were hidden away in hibernation. He had also quickly discovered that his incredibly high metabolism needed more food than what he could scavenge from nature. Whether his metabolism was so demanding due to the mutations that had been forced upon his body and mind or simply because he was a teenager, Geralt wasn’t sure, and, frankly, he didn’t care. All he knew was that he was tired of being hungry all of the time. In addition, having to constantly prowl the forests to supply his meals was interfering with his goal. How could he scour the Continent looking for the one person that he wanted to find the most if he was spending all of his time in the woods? 

Therefore, he had decided that he’d stop at the next town he came to and look for some part-time work. Perhaps, he could help someone to…and then he had paused as it dawned on him that he wasn’t actually knowledgeable or skilled in anything besides witcher-work. It was all he knew. Everything that had been drilled into his head in all of the years at Kaer Morhen had been done so for one and _only_ one, ultimate purpose – killing monsters. So, how in the world could he ever assist a baker or a brick-maker or anyone in a ‘normal’ profession? He had quickly realized that he couldn’t. Thus, a month after leaving the Wolf School stronghold in northern Kaedwen, he had resigned himself – with deep reservations – to finding and accepting a witcher’s contract.

Geralt breathed in deeply and then exhaled forcefully.

“Just this once,” he said to himself. “And then never again.”

Eventually, with a final shake of his head, he brought the two potions to his mouth and swallowed them down. Seconds later, he gritted his teeth together and sucked in his breath as he felt the elixirs begin coursing through his veins. He clenched his jaws even more tightly and tried his best to control his breathing until the intense pain passed. In time, the burning throughout his body subsided, and when he opened his cat-like eyes, all of his already superhuman senses were enhanced even more. It seemed as if the rest of the world was moving in slow motion, and his muscles twitched with power and in anticipation of being unleashed. 

The young witcher quickly put the magical, wolf-head medallion around his neck, drew his silver sword from his back, and then bent down to inspect the blood stains near his feet in the grassy meadow. After a moment, he stood and stepped past a few recently-felled trees and into the darkened woods beyond. From having questioned the owner of the sawmill – who was both the contract-giver and the alderman of the village – and a few of the surviving lumberjacks, he was fairly confident that he knew what monster was lurking ahead, but he wasn’t 100% sure, and, at that point, he was regretting having left his bestiary back at Kaer Morhen. Just like with the silver medallion and the potions, he had sworn that he’d never need it, but it would have eased his mind a bit to be able to open the book and verify if his deductions were accurate.

_“Well, guess I’m going to find out soon enough if I’m right,”_ he thought to himself with a slight shake of his head.

The witcher’s pupils dilated just a fraction wider as he continued walking into the forest. Its normally thick, overhead canopy was a bit sparse due to the winter season, but even so, the twisting network of tree limbs and all of the leaves from the evergreens partially blocked out the morning sun. With his sword at his side, he moved silently - ducking under low-hanging branches and stepping carefully over logs and fallen tree limbs. As he continued to follow the trail of blood, his breathing was slow and his eyes, nose, and ears were completely tuned in to his environment. Rays of sunlight broke through the foliage to light up the forest floor here and there, and while he didn’t yet see anything alarming or out of the ordinary, he did detect an unpleasant scent mingled with the odor of the morning dew on the grass. He’d smelled that scent before – the stench of decaying flesh, but this smelled a bit different. A memory quickly came to mind, and he wondered if the odor was from human flesh. Master Vesemir had told him that it had a slightly unique scent, just as this did. If so, then he knew that he was on the right track. Suddenly, he stopped in mid-step when he heard what sounded like a murder of crows cawing off in the distance. The witcher stood perfectly still - listening intently and his eyes scanning the woods in front of him. He still saw nothing but the forest trees. Eventually, he gave himself a slight nod of his head, and, after a pause, he began moving deliberately in the direction of the birds.

As the witcher maneuvered through the woods, the cawing continued to get louder and louder, and then he paused when he detected the growls of wolves coming from somewhere nearby, as well. While he was stopped, he automatically reached up with his left hand and wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow. He peered down at the moisture on his fingertips, and a look of confusion crossed his face. There was no way that he should be sweating given that it was such a cool, winter morning. And it was at that point that he realized that his heart was beating much faster than it had been just a few minutes before. He tried to swallow, but his throat was incredibly dry.

_“A witcher knows no fear,”_ he thought to himself. _“A witcher knows no fear.”_

It was a mantra that the teenager had heard at least a thousand times in his life.

He took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then cautiously continued forward. Geralt walked down into a small ravine containing a shallow creek but immediately stopped after he had climbed to the other side. Fifty feet in front of him was a large oak, which wasn’t strange in and of itself. However, the tree was filled with dozens of cawing black crows, and the remains of three lumberjacks were suspended from the oak’s lower limbs by thick, green vines. Most disconcerting was that, underneath the corpses, a pack of wolves stood at attention, staring and snarling right in his direction.

The witcher’s eyes went wide as suddenly dozens of crows cawed loudly and left the tree as one – all flying directly at him. Almost immediately, the entire pack of wolves began their attack, as well, and then he felt his silver, wolf-head medallion vibrating against his chest. Geralt quickly cast a Quen Sign – its orange, lightning-like bolts of energy instantly pulsating around his body – and just as he brought his sword in front of him into the defensive position, he heard his Quen shield crack, and he felt incredible pain near his right knee. He glanced down to see thick, gnarly roots shooting up from the forest floor. One root had penetrated his trousers and dug itself into his upper calf muscle while the others were doing their best to wrap themselves around his legs. He hacked at the roots with his blade and immediately signed another Quen just a moment before a dozen crows flew straight into him, bouncing off the protective barrier and falling dead or dazed to the ground.

He tried to roll to his right, but several roots were still wrapped around his ankles and tightening themselves fast. He was about to hack at them again, when he sensed the wolves approaching. With his left hand, he blasted a continuous stream of fire from his left to his right, singing half of the pack and forcing them to evade. Three wolves kept charging, however, and leapt at the witcher with their jaws wide. The first two impacted and shattered his Quen shield, which caused them to be propelled back several feet. He swung his sword at the roots again, finally cutting through his fetters. Just as he was pulling his feet free, another wolf attacked and chomped down hard onto the witcher’s forearm. The teenager wore no true, witcher’s armor - only a gambeson - and while it did provide some protection, the beast’s teeth still sunk straight through the padded material and into the muscles of his forearm. Immediately, the wolf began jerking its head from side-to-side, trying its best to knock him off balance and onto the ground. 

The witcher steadied himself and propelled Igni fire right into the wolf’s face, causing it to yelp and to release its grip on his sword-arm, and then he immediately dove hard to his right to give himself some distance from the still-attacking roots. He rolled and came up on the balls of his feet just as two more wolves charged at him. His blade flashed twice through the air, and the wolves yelped loudly as he sliced through them both. It was then that another flock of crows bombarded the monster-slayer. He instantly covered his face with his right forearm and blasted the incoming birds with the telekinetic-force of his Aard Sign. Black feathers exploded in the air, and the crows fell to the ground. 

He didn’t even have time to catch his breath before two more wolves attacked. He whirled between the two beasts, slicing his blade through them both, while at the same time sensing his medallion vibrate again. As soon as he came out of his spin, more roots shot forth from the ground, piercing and entangling his legs. As he was hacking away at them to free himself, he detected something out of the corner of his eye. He looked up to see a small cloud of black smoke forming near him. His eyes went wide, knowing what he was about to see. He quickly signed another Quen and turned his attention to the roots ensnaring him, but before he could free himself, he heard a strange hissing noise, and he looked up to see a monster that he’d never laid eyes on before materialize right in front of him.

While he’d both heard about and read descriptions of them – and even seen drawings in Brother Adelbert’s bestiary - this was the first time he’d ever seen a leshen in real life. While the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen had their share of monsters, leshens didn’t inhabit the area. This forest spirit was over ten feet tall, and at the top of its body – a body seemingly composed of tree limbs, animal bones, and dried mud – was a giant deer skull with expansive antlers. 

The monster hissed again and swung one of its long arms at the witcher. Geralt tried to dodge, but one root was still wrapped around his leg, and the leshen’s hard, claw-like hand shattered his Quen shield and knocked him to the ground. He quickly hacked away the last root and rolled to his left an instant before another claw immediately smashed down into the ground where he’d just been. From his back, he cast an Igni at the monster, and it instantly caught on fire. As it hissed and thrashed its arms about, Geralt jumped to his feet and began simultaneously ducking the monster’s claws while slicing his blade into its mid-section. 

The witcher was feeling confident of the damage he was inflicting when, suddenly, swirls of black smoke appeared before his eyes as the leshen vanished. He quickly brought his sword in front of him into a defensive position, and breathing heavily, he spun in a circle and swiveled his head, trying to locate the dangerous creature. Across the meadow, near the large oak, he saw the black smoke materialize, and he immediately began running in its direction. Before he was even half-way there, however, the leshen quickly appeared and thrust its arms into the ground. The witcher cursed, and he instantly dove to his right, evading a tangle of thick roots that shot upward from the ground. He rolled to his feet, and grabbing a bomb off of his bandolier, he backhand tossed it at the leshen. The Dancing Star exploded against the monster’s chest and burst into flames, engulfing the highly fire-vulnerable beast.

As the creature continued to hiss and thrash about, Geralt rushed towards it, ducked a blow from a flaming claw, and swung his sword into its leg. The blade cut straight through, and the monster crumpled to the ground. Seizing the opportunity, the witcher immediately flipped the sword in his hands and thrust it downward straight through the leshen’s chest. Not even waiting to see if the blow had been fatal, the teenager withdrew his weapon and continued to rapidly pierce the monster a half-a-dozen more times through its head and thorax – each thrust punctuated by a small growl. Finally, he removed his sword and took several steps backwards, his eyes on the monster the entire time. The leshen was no longer moving, and his witcher medallion wasn’t vibrating so he assumed the beast to be dead. He swiveled his head and scanned the meadow. Not seeing any other danger, he slowly lowered his sword to his side and exhaled deeply.

“Note to self,” he said between taking deep breaths, “those roots…are much nastier…than I thought they’d be.”

And it was then that the monster-slayer felt his muscles start to tremble. He raised his left hand, and, as he blinked away the sweat pouring into his eyes, he noticed that it was slightly shaking. He intentionally tried to slow down his breathing, and, a moment later, he suddenly became aware of his injuries as pain radiated from various parts of his body. His legs had been punctured in several spots, and his forearm throbbed from the wolf’s bite, but it was his chest that was causing the most discomfort. He glanced down and saw three long tears in his tan-colored gambeson – a gambeson now stained red with blood. The gashes began just below his left collarbone and ran down towards his abdomen.

Geralt furrowed his brow. When had that happened? He hadn’t even felt it during the battle. He quickly reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled out a metal vial containing Swallow. He uncorked the vial with his teeth and quickly drank down the orange-colored health potion.

Just as he was about to inspect his chest wounds more closely, he suddenly heard a faint whimper coming from the other side of the clearing. He lifted his eyes, and after seeing one of the wolves struggling to stand, he began to limp in its direction. As he got closer, he noticed that it was different than the rest. While the other wolves were a brownish-grey color, the one still living was almost white – though its fur was now filthy, covered in dirt and blood. By the time Geralt got to within ten feet of the wolf, it was standing on all four legs, baring its teeth and growling at the witcher. The teenager saw that its side was sliced open and part of its intestines were hanging loose.

“Easy, boy,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The wolf responded with a low, short bark and then continued to bare its teeth as a deep growl rumbled in its throat.

“Alright, alright,” said Geralt. “Sorry.”

Starting to feel a little light headed, he sunk the tip of his blade into the ground and knelt down on one knee. Grasping the hilt, he leaned his weight on the sword while he hugged his left forearm close to his bloody, injured chest. 

“I don’t like anyone calling me ‘boy,’ either.”

He, suddenly, remembered his language lessons back at Kaer Morhen – specifically, his lessons in the Elder Speech.

“How about ‘Gwynbleidd,’ then?” he asked.

The wolf just continued to emit a low growl.

“Look, I just want to help you,” whispered Geralt, between slow, deep breaths. “I know you were controlled by that leshen so…no hard feelings, okay? Let me help you. I can stitch you up.”

The beast barked again and bared its teeth, and its fur stood on end.

“Gwynbleidd,” the witcher said calmly. “Look around you. Your pack is dead. You’re all alone. I…I know how you feel. So, let me help you.”

Suddenly, the wolf took two, quick strides forward and leapt at Geralt with its jaws open wide. The witcher, in a flash, had his sword in front of him, its tip aiming at the beast. The wolf impaled itself on the sword, the blade sliding right through its chest and out its back. However, the animal’s momentum carried forward, and it crashed into the teenager’s body. The witcher fell backwards onto the forest floor into the supine position while the large wolf landed hard on top of him.

Geralt immediately brought his left arm up to cover his face - expecting a savage attack to his face and neck - while at the same time twisting the sword with his right hand, trying to inflict as much damage as possible. Eventually, he realized that the wolf wasn’t moving or growling, and he quickly pushed its corpse off of him and then groggily got to his feet. He winced and brought his left hand up, pressing it tightly against the wounds on his chest. As his bloody sword hung at his side, he stared down at the dead wolf and shook his head.

“Why? Why would you do that?” he asked, with a confused look.

Eventually, he sighed deeply and nodded his head.

“Because it’s all you know.”

He stood there lost in thought for a moment, his eyes no longer really focused on the wolf in front of him, and then the sunlight sparkled off of the silver medallion resting against his chest, catching his attention. He peered at it briefly and then slowly turned and looked across the meadow at the leshen’s corpse. After staring at the monster for several long seconds, he lowered his eyes to the ground in front of him. He shook his head slightly as a sneer came to his face.

“Because it’s all I know,” he whispered through clenched jaws.

Geralt staggered towards the leshen’s remains, and, once there, he quickly removed its head. And it was then that his vision went black, and he fell face-first towards the forest floor.

oOo

Geralt – with his horse’s reins in hand - slowly walked towards the village as his mount obediently trailed along behind him. The late afternoon sun was shining brightly at his back, and the leshen’s head was dangling from a hook on the back of his horse’s saddle. Though his gambeson and trousers were still stained dark red with blood, they were now – along with the various injuries on his body – very neatly stitched up. And unlike the past month, when he’d carried nothing but a knife on his person, he now wore his twin swords on his back. However, the witcher medallion was back in the pocket of his trousers.

When he reached the outskirts of town, several, small children – playing whatever games that kids that age play – saw him coming and proceeded to act as his herald. 

They ran into the village, their little feet kicking up dust along the narrow, dirt road, all the while yelling, “The witcher’s back! The witcher’s back!”

Geralt was aware that he had never smiled much in all of his years at Kaer Morhen – mostly because he believed that he’d had very little to smile about. He would routinely go days - if not weeks - without a smile ever coming to his lips, and when it did come, it felt completely uncomfortable and out of place. Therefore, as was his custom, he kept his face stoic as he entered the village. That said, he couldn’t deny that he felt a strange but warm feeling on the inside. It was the same feeling that he’d get when Master Vesemir had, on those very rare occasions, given him a small nod and a grunt of approval on his sword-skills. And, suddenly, he found himself striding through the village with his back a little straighter and his chin a little higher than normal. 

But as Geralt led his horse along the narrow road towards the alderman’s residence, he began to furrow his brow - the warm feeling quickly turning to confusion. It seemed to the witcher as if all the townsfolk were standing in the doorways or windows of their homes, watching him as he passed by. Their eyes alternated between him, the leshen’s head, and the ground at their feet. But not a one wore a smile on their face, and a few even seemed to be sporting a scowl. The witcher didn’t understand it. Shouldn’t they be coming out to welcome him…to thank him? He shook his head as he continued walking through the village, and with each villager that he passed, his dismay continued to grow.

By the time that he approached his destination, his shoulders were slumped and his eyes were on the ground in front of him. He looked up to see a small crowd near the front porch of the alderman’s house, and as he came to a stop, he heard giggling coming from his right. He glanced over to see two teenage girls – one blond and the other dark-haired - with their heads close together, both peering right at him. The brown-haired girl suddenly turned to the other – a fetching lass with clear skin and her honey-blond hair in a pony-tail - and whispered something, her hand covering her mouth. While the brunette giggled again, the blonde simply grinned and broke her gaze from the witcher to look at her friend – but only for a second. She quickly regained eye-contact with him, and then Geralt watched as she slightly bit her lower lip and slowly batted her eye-lashes at him. 

Geralt blinked a couple of times and instantly felt the blood rushing to his face. He knew that, with his pale skin, he probably looked like a ripened tomato, which caused him to blush even more. He swallowed and immediately looked away from the girl – for he had no idea what to do. He was saved from the awkward situation by a gentle voice coming from the front porch.

“Welcome back, young witcher,” greeted the alderman with a smile.

He was an older man with a thick, grey beard, bushy eye-brows, and countless wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Is that the beast that killed my men?” he asked, his face suddenly turning serious as he thrust his chin towards the leshen’s head.

Geralt nodded in response and moved to the rear of his horse. He lifted the trophy off of the hook and dropped it onto the ground, making the dozen or so townsfolk crowded around all take several steps back. When Geralt looked back at the alderman, the old man had a slight frown on his face.

“Best come inside, then,” he said gravely, “so we can conclude our business.”

Geralt wrapped his reins around the railing along the front porch and entered the small cabin. He’d only taken one step inside when he immediately stopped. That morning, when he’d been inside discussing the contract, there had only been three of them in the meeting – himself, the alderman, and the alderman’s son – a hard-looking bloke named Donal. But, now, the small cabin was packed with men. In addition to the alderman and his son, four others – two of whom looked fairly similar to Donal – were spread out around the main room looking at the witcher. The fact that they were all either carrying large axes across their backs or smaller hatchets on their hips didn’t escape the teenager’s notice.

“Come in, young witcher,” said Alderman Stipe, sitting behind a desk opposite the front door. “Please, take a seat.”

He was pointing to a chair on the other side of the desk and just a few paces away from the witcher. Donal was standing to his father’s right, his eyes boring into the monster-slayer.

Geralt looked at the alderman and then the chair. He quickly shifted his gaze to the men on his left and right, easily recognizing that if he sat down then he’d have at least two men behind him. He finally looked back at the alderman and noticed that he didn’t have a smile on his face. He swallowed and took a couple of steps forward to stand just behind the chair.

“I’ll stand if you don’t mind. Already spend most of my days sitting…in the saddle,” he lied. The truth was that he’d still never even mounted his horse yet, much less ridden her.

“Right, of course,” said Alderman Stipe, and then a small smile came to his face. “You know, I still can’t get used to your voice. You got the unwrinkled skin of teenager, but you sound like a grizzled old man. Not to mention your white hair.”

The monster-slayer didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

Eventually realizing that the teenager would give no explanation, the alderman continued.

“So, uh, what exactly was that thing you killed?” he asked.

“Called a leshen. A forest spirit, a protector of nature. They take offense when their trees are cut down.”

“ _Their_ trees?” growled Donal. “We own this land. We can do with it as we see fit.”

Geralt shifted his eyes to the large, clearly angry man.

“It seems the leshen disagreed,” he replied.

“Now, now, Donal,” said Alderman Stipe. “The witcher isn’t here for a debate.”

He then turned to face Geralt.

“Just, uh, _please_ tell me - the forest is safe to enter now, right? I mean, it’s impossible to run a lumber business with no timber. These last two months have been incredibly hard on us.”

Geralt could easily detect the pleading tone in the old man’s voice. He breathed in deeply before he answered.

“I’d love to tell you that _your_ forest -” he said, glancing at Donal, “- is free of danger. But I don’t make promises that I can’t keep.”

“What? But…the monster – the leshen, you killed it.”

“I did, but I have no idea what else may be in those woods.”

“So, another one of those things could be lurking out there?”

“Could be. I don’t know. Leshens are typically solitary creatures, and I didn’t see evidence of any other monsters, but yeah…anything’s possible.”

“Right…right, well…” said the alderman, looking at the witcher.

And then, with a frown, he reached to his right and opened a drawer in his desk. He pulled out a small coin bag, leaned over, and placed it on Geralt’s side of the desk.

“Well, here you go, young witcher. Your payment.”

Geralt noticed that the alderman suddenly couldn’t maintain eye contact with him, which seemed odd since he’d had no problem up to that point. The witcher didn’t immediately reach for the money. Instead, he slowly turned his head to each side, glancing at the two men behind him, and then he made eye contact with each man in front of him, stopping when he came to Donal. Eventually, he broke his gaze and looked down at the coin bag. He slowly took a step forward, reached over the chair, and grabbed the money with his left hand – never taking his eyes of the men in front of him. He stood back up straight, his body tense, just waiting for something to happen. Several moments later – when the men had still not moved - he looked at the old man and exhaled softly. And, then, the smallest of smiles crossed his lips.

“Nice doing business with you, Alderman,” said the witcher with a nod of his head, and then he turned and headed towards the exit.

He’d only taken two steps, however, when he stopped. When he turned back around, he was holding the coin bag open with both hands. He looked at the alderman with a wrinkled brow.

“There’s been a mistake,” said Geralt. “This is only half of what we agreed to.”

Before the alderman could reply, Donal rested a large hand on his father’s shoulder and took a step forward.

“There’s been no mistake,” he said in a low voice.

Geralt looked at the big man and then squinted at the alderman.

“But this isn’t right. We made a deal. I fulfilled my end of the contract. You’re _supposed_ to fulfill yours. That’s how this is supposed to work.”

The witcher sounded more dismayed than angry.

“I…I’m sorry, but…that’s all we can give,” stammered the old man. “You don’t know how tough times have gotten since that monster appeared. We’ve got dozens of families – wives and children to support. And no other witcher would accept the contract for what we could give.”

“But you gave me your _word…_ and _shook_ on it _,_ ” Geralt stated with his brows furrowed. “Have you no honor?”

“Shut your damned mouth, boy,” growled Donal. “How dare you lecture us on honor, you damn mutant-freak.”

The witcher slowly turned to look at the large man. For several long seconds, the small cabin was virtually silent. Only the sound of the men’s breathing could be heard. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Geralt saw one villager slowly moving his hand upward toward the axe handle that was visible near his right shoulder. The teenager quickly turned his head and pinned the man with his stare – the man’s hand frozen in mid-air. Eventually, the lumberjack returned his hand back to his side, and then Geralt looked back at the alderman.

“They told me this would happen,” he whispered. “But I didn’t believe them.”

He shook his head, the look on his face a combination of disgust and confusion, and then he turned and headed towards the door. Just as he was about to exit the cabin, he turned around and stared hard at Donal.

“And my name’s not ‘boy.’ It’s Geralt. And if you’re too _stupid_ to remember that, then you can call me ‘Master Witcher.’ I’ve earned that title,” growled the monster-slayer. “And if anybody calls me ‘boy’ again…” - the witcher raised his left hand, and suddenly a ten-inch tall flame burst forth from his up-turned palm - “…then I’ll turn this entire shit-stain town to ash.”

After looking each man in the room directly in the eyes, he closed his left hand into a fist, and the flame immediately blinked out.

“It’s what you deserve.”

He turned and was just about to open the door to leave when he heard a soft, feminine voice behind him.

“Please wait, Master Witcher.”

He turned back around to see a stooped woman who looked much like Alderman Stipe – grey hair and wrinkles – standing in the doorway to an adjoining room. She held a bundle in front of her with both hands – a bundle wrapped in a faded, pale blue handkerchief that was tied into a knot at the top.

“Martha?” said the alderman with confusion in his voice. “What are you doing?”

She only glanced at him before looking back at the teenager and then walking feebly in his direction. Eventually she made it across the room and stood in front of the witcher, craning her neck to look up into his eyes. Geralt noticed she had a small frown on her face.

“I truly am sorry for everything that’s happened here today…for our deception,” she said, “and I hope that one day you will find it in your heart to forgive us.”

She held the bundle out to him.

“This is for you, Geralt.”

The witcher’s eyes shifted to the bundle for only a second before looking back at the old woman.

“What is it?” he asked, suspicion clear in his voice.

“Well, it’s _not_ the other half of the coin that we owe you,” she answered. “It’s just some bread and eggs. I figure a young man like yourself probably gets hungry a lot out there in the wild. I hope you’ll accept it.”

Geralt looked at the woman a moment longer, noticing clear sadness in her eyes. He nodded his head and reached for the bundle. As he grasped it, she reached over and tenderly patted the top of his hand. Feeling her touch made him involuntarily flinch, and then he slowly brought the package towards him, holding it at his waist. The woman gave him a wistful smile.

“And thank you, Geralt…for killing the monster,” she said. “One of the men that died was Layke…one of my sons.”

With that, she nodded her headed, shuffled back across the room and back through the open door.

Geralt watched her go and, without a glance at anyone else, he turned and opened the front door to the cabin. He walked out and immediately ran into a young man who had been eavesdropping at the door, and the bundle of food smashed between their two bodies. The witcher heard the unmistakable sound of the eggs breaking just before the young man fell onto his backside onto the porch. He slowly lifted the handkerchief to eye-level and saw that bright yellow yolk was already soaking through the thin cloth and dripping down onto the wooden planks below.

After staring at the bundle for a moment, he let out a deep sigh, and then, with his jaws clenched, he looked at the fellow teenager at his feet as he lowered the ruined package to his side. Fear was plastered all over the young man’s face. The witcher gave the tiniest shake of his head and simply dropped the ruined food onto the porch. Then, without making eye-contact with any of the other villagers – not even the two flirtatious girls – he walked to the porch’s railing and grabbed his horse’s reins.

“Let’s go, Roach,” he said, and then the two of them made their way out of town, the witcher very intentionally not looking back over his shoulder. He was afraid of what he might do if he saw Donal or any of the others again.

oOo

_Rivia_

Rain poured down on the witcher as he stood in front of the charred remains of a small, wooden cabin. After finishing the leshen contract, he’d headed south, and while the search had taken him well over a month, he’d finally found the place. Though his face was his normal mask of stoicism, his heart was beating fast, for he was now standing before his boyhood home, with memories of his mother rushing through his mind. Memories that he hadn’t known even existed. 

He wasn’t entirely sure if what he was remembering was even true – for it had been over a decade since he’d been there last. Plus, there was no telling what kind of damage the mutations may have done to the memories tucked away in the recesses of his mind. So, he realized that these new recollections could be just the product of his imagination – and of his hopes and desires. But if that was the case - if it was all make-believe - then he didn’t want to know.

_“Mama, are you sick?” asked Geralt._

_“No sweetie, it’s just a little cold,” she answered. “Nothing to worry yourself over.”_

_She tucked the blankets snugly around her little boy and then sat back down on the edge of the bed. The flame from the nearby candle on the bedside table reflected in her green eyes and gave her dark, red hair a coppery glint. The light also twinkled off of the small, silver butterfly brooch that she wore._

_“Now, what bedtime story do you want to hear?”_

_“The knight and the maiden!” he said excitedly._

_She smiled and gave a little laugh._

_“Of course, you do.”_

_“Mama?” he asked, his face now serious._

_“Yes, sweetie?”_

_“Do you think I could be a knight one day?”_

_“Well, I don’t see why not,” she said with a smile. “You’ve already got all the makings of one.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Well, you’re brave, you’re honorable, and you’re kind. Those are the most important qualities that any knight – or any person, for that matter - can possess.”_

_“And a big sword,” said Geralt with a small smile._

_Visenna laughed lightly._

_“Yes, that would probably help, too.”_

_Suddenly, the smile disappeared from his face._

_“I’m gonna be a knight for you, Mama.”_

_“For me?”_

_He nodded his head._

_“So I can save you if bad men ever come.”_

_She smiled and then put her closed, right hand in front of her._

_“In that case, I dub thee, Sir Geralt of Rivia,” she said in a regal tone as she touched an imaginary sword to each of his shoulders. “A knight of honor and a defender of the downtrodden.”_

_A big grin broke out on the little boy’s face, and he raised up out of bed and hugged his mother tightly._

_“I love you, Mama.”_

_“I love you, too, my little knight.”_

The witcher blinked his eyes, and they came back into focus as the memory ended. He found himself, once again, standing before the small cabin in the middle of a downpour. His body was shivering, but he wasn’t sure if it was due to the winter rain or from the memory. He clenched his jaws and breathed in deeply as the rain drops fell from his hair and ran down his cheeks. After exhaling slowly, he tried to swallow, but there seemed to be something stuck in his throat so he breathed in deeply again. But this time, he felt a small stabbing pain in his heart. So, he just closed his eyes, lowered his chin to his chest, and stood still as the rain washed over him.

Geralt didn’t know how long he had stood there – a few minutes or maybe a few hours – but he didn’t really care. Eventually, though, he raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared at the burned-down cabin. He nodded his head several times.

“I’m gonna find you, Mom. If it’s the last thing I do,” he said to himself.

And then he strode through the storm towards his childhood home.


	2. Chapter 2

_Kaer Morhen - Winter 1182_

“So, Hieronymus, is he a halfling or a munchkin?” asked Kalen with a laugh.

The sorcerer clearly didn’t see the humor in the question as not even a smirk appeared. His face remained a mask of stoicism behind his long black beard and bushy eyebrows.

“Neither,” answered the mage, wearing a drab, dark purple cloak. “He’s just a tiny boy. Very small, even for his age.”

Geralt was standing on a short, circular platform in the middle of a large, chilly laboratory. In front of him were six witchers, only two of whom he knew, and he could sense all of their cat-like eyes inspecting him. He wore nothing but his underpants while the mage was slowly moving his hands in all directions around him, from head to toe and back again. Even though the sorcerer’s hands never came within six inches of touching him, Geralt could feel the orange glow emanating from the mage’s fingertips passing through him, causing him to shiver. It felt like spiders were skittering across his skin. Of course, he’d experienced that exact feeling numerous times in the past so it didn’t unnerve him, but he still didn’t enjoy it.

“But, other than a little dehydration, he seems to be in normal health,” continued Hieronymus, his serious eyes scanning Geralt’s body. The orange light surrounding his hands suddenly blinked out, and he then grabbed a bottle full of a green, viscous liquid off of a nearby table and handed it to Geralt.

“Drink this,” he ordered, “and get dressed.”

The little boy took a whiff of the liquid and winced at the smell, but when he looked up, he saw the mage’s eyes boring into his own. Geralt instinctively knew that the sorcerer would brook no argument. So, without another thought, he quickly swallowed the foul-tasting elixir – fighting back a gag - and then reached for his trousers. As he dressed himself, he did his best to pay attention to the conversation going on around him – a conversation about him – but he simply didn’t understand half of what they were talking about.

“So, will he be ready for the next Trials?” asked Kalen.

“You already know the answer to that,” answered Hieronymus. “He’s nowhere near physically ready. At the rate he’s currently growing, it may be four or five years until his body could handle the stress.”

“Bloody hell!” said Kalen with a scowl, before quickly turning to face the only other witcher that Geralt knew. “What were you thinking, Gardis? Why’d you bring the little runt here?”

“I told you - it was complicated,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “It was either that or leave him there to die, and Elgar’s always harping on about us needing more fodder.”

Kalen then addressed another witcher, one with long gray hair that touched his shoulders and who was leaning ever so slightly on a cane in his right hand. Geralt guessed that he was the oldest in the group.

“Elgar, what am I supposed to do with him? I train fodder. I’m not a baby-sitter.”

The old man slowly turned his gaze toward Geralt and rubbed his hand through his beard – a beard that stopped a good foot past his chin.

“Barin, think he could handle your training?”

“Hell no,” said the witcher named Barin, shaking his head. “There’s no way he could lift even our lightest training sword.”

“Boy,” said Elgar, now peering intently at Geralt, “can you read…or count?” 

“I-I can-can count to ten, Master Witcher. And I…I know some of my letters.”

Elgar slowly nodded his head.

“Well, at least there’s that.”

After a pause, he looked back at Kalen.

“It’s not ideal, but – except for the sword-training - treat him and train him just like you would any other.”

“And what do I do with him when the fodder are with Barin?”

“Send him to Yastic. He’s always complaining that he needs the help.”

At that, several of the witchers laughed, and as they began exiting the laboratory, the sorcerer turned and spoke to Geralt.

“You were surprisingly calm during your physical, boy,” said the mage. “Most fodder are – if not frightened – then, at least, curious of magic. But not you. Magic interests you not, does it?”

“No, Master Har…Harmonious.”

The mage lifted his hand.

“It’s ‘Hieronymus.’ But, if that’s too difficult, then, ‘Master Mage,’ will suffice.”

“No, Master Mage,” Geralt said with a shake of his head. “I like magic. My mama can do it.”

Hieronymus narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t lie to me, boy.”

“I’m…I’m n-not lying, Master Mage,” he stammered. “Mama says lying is bad.”

The sorcerer stared down at Geralt.

“Wielders of magic cannot have children, boy. None of us can. It’s impossible.”

“But…but she could. I promise,” said Geralt. “I saw her do it. She did magic on me…a lot.”

Hieronymus closely scrutinized the little boy’s face.

“Then, in that case, I don’t know who this woman was, but she wasn’t your mother…even if you did call her, ‘Mama.’”

Geralt felt as if he’d been slapped.

“That’s not true! She was my mama!”

Immediately, Geralt felt a stinging slap across the face, and he fell to the stone floor of the laboratory. He looked up through teary eyes to see Kalen standing above him.

“You’ve got a stiff neck, don’t ya, boy.” Then the scarred witcher smiled. “That’s alright. I’ve got one, too. We’ll see who breaks first.”

oOo

“Here’s your new home, boy,” said Kalen, as he pushed Geralt towards a wooden door.

The door was in the middle of a long, one story wooden barracks situated on the second level of the grounds – a level up from the horses’ stables. In front of the building was a large, open area where two older boys – to Geralt, they looked to be around twelve or thirteen – dueled each other with swords. As he had walked down towards the barracks, he’d been mesmerized by their activity for he’d never actually seen anyone wield a sword with true skill before, but he thought that they were eerily and strangely quiet. Whenever he’d ever played ‘knights and bandits’ with the local village boys back home, there’d always been much shouting and taunting as they poked and popped each other with their make-believe swords – thin, broken tree limbs. But neither of the two teens spoke or laughed while they dueled. Only the ‘clink’ and ‘clank’ of their metal blades striking each other could be heard echoing off of the high, stone walls of the fortress.

Geralt, now standing in front of the door, took his eyes off the boys and craned his neck to look up at the scarred witcher.

“What do I…what do I do in there, Master Kalen?” he asked.

The witcher smiled.

“Whatever they tell you to do,” he said. “Now go in and find yourself a bunk.”

The little boy turned to face the door and gulped as he turned the handle. A pungent odor immediately assaulted his senses, causing him to wince slightly and pause at the threshold. He suddenly felt a hard shove from the back and went flying face-first onto the floor of the barracks. He rolled over to see Kalen looking down with a sneer on his face.

“Sweet dreams, boy,” he said, and then the ugly witcher immediately slammed the door shut. Geralt could hear his laughter from the other side of the door before it eventually faded away.

He quickly tried to stand, but the adult-sized coat that he wore made it difficult for him. It was several sizes too large – the sleeves ending almost a foot past his fingertips and the bottom of the coat stopping near his ankles. Eventually, he got to his feet, and when he looked behind him, he saw two long, wooden tables with their accompanying benches running parallel with the barrack’s walls. At the far end of the room was a large fireplace, filled with a blazing fire, around which sat a few kids.

When he turned his head in the opposite direction, he saw long rows of bunk beds – one on each side of the dimly lit room. He noticed that many of the beds were already occupied, but a few – the ones closest to the door – were empty. The little boy swallowed and took a tentative step forward, along the aisle that separated the two rows of beds. He kept his head down and simply glanced from side to side as he slowly shuffled along. In his peripheral vision, he could see several large kids sitting on their bunks and looking his way. He shot a glance in their direction and saw several pair of cat-like eyes reflecting back at him so he immediately looked away and down at his feet. 

Geralt stopped at the third bunk-bed because the bottom berth was empty. But he knew that didn’t mean it was unoccupied. Perhaps, its owner was one of the boys outside or down near the fireplace. 

“Uh, ex…excuse me,” he stammered out, looking at a young man on the next bunk over. He was lying on his back with an arm draped over his eyes.

The youth slowly moved his arm to the side and lifted his head – his cat-eyes staring directly at Geralt, causing the little boy to swallow hard.

“Is…is this bunk free?” he asked, and then remembering what Master Kalen had taught him, he quickly added, “…Master Witcher.”

Immediately, the youth raised up out of his bed, got to his feet, and approached Geralt. He knelt down in front of the wide-eyed little boy, and, in a flash, his left hand grabbed the front of Geralt’s coat while he cuffed the side of Geralt’s head with his other hand. The blow didn’t actually hurt too much, but Geralt still whimpered slightly, turning his head to the side and closing his eyes. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, bracing himself for whatever came next.

“Look at my chest, runt,” said the youth.

Geralt quickly obeyed and moved his eyes upward. All he saw was a heavily-stained undershirt that had once been white.

“Do you see a silver medallion?”

“N-n-no, M-master Witcher,” the little boy squeaked out. He was doing his best not to cry. The last thing he wanted to do was shed tears in front of a room-full of strange, older kids.

The youth quickly cuffed Geralt’s head again.

“That’s right, runt,” he said without emotion. “I don’t have my medallion yet…so don’t call me, ‘Master Witcher.’”

He then hit Geralt on the side of the head again, but the little boy didn’t fall to the floor given that he was still being held up-right by the older youth.

“You better start paying attention to detail, runt. Otherwise, you won’t last a week here.”

Geralt was clenching his fists and breathing rapidly, but he was somehow able to bring his eyes up to look at the boy. Unlike with Master Kalen, there was no sneer or snarl on the smooth face of the young witcher-in-training, but there was no smile either. In truth, Geralt couldn’t detect any emotion on the older boy’s teenage face or in his voice. Suddenly, the older boy straightened up to full height while pushing forward with his left hand at the same time. Geralt fell backward, hard onto his tail-end.

“And these bunks near the door are for PMs. Fodder sleep down the way,” said the teen, pointing a thumb to his right at the bunks situated further down the aisle. He then returned to his bunk, once again lying down and draping his arm over his eyes.

Geralt, gasping for breath, blinked his eyes several times and then heard a few snickers coming from the darkness. When he looked around, he saw many other kids lying in near-by bunks just staring at him. Some were shaking their heads while others just peered at him with dead eyes, but none wore a warm, inviting smile.

He, again, untangled himself from his too-large overcoat and got to his feet. He looked to the far end of the barracks and saw another fireplace with a fire blazing inside. He slowly began walking towards it, keeping his head down and his eyes on it. As he came to each new bunk, he quickly glanced at each one to see if there was an empty bed, but once he saw it was occupied, he’d immediately look straight ahead again. As he neared the end of the row, he was starting get to get even more nervous because it seemed as if every bottom bunk was already taken. To make matters worse, he was too short to see if the top bunks were occupied. The last thing he wanted to do was climb up the end slats and onto a bed only to find someone already there. He’d rather sleep on the floor than go through that embarrassment.

Suddenly, he heard a voice whisper from his right.

“Hey, kid.”

Geralt quickly swiveled his head and saw a young boy step out of the shadows. He had red hair, and freckles covered his pale face. Even though he was definitely under the age of ten, he was still well-over a foot taller than Geralt.

“The bunk above me is empty,” the red-head stated in a low voice.

Geralt stared at the boy for a moment before he nodded his head and took a couple of steps forward.

“Th-thanks,” he whispered.

The red-head nodded back.

“No problem,” he replied. “I’m Closs. What’s your name?”

“I’m…I’m Geralt.”

“Well, come here, Geralt. Let me tell how things work around here so that you don’t get beaten black and blue on your first day.”

The boy then turned and walked back into the shadows.

Geralt just stared into the darkness, unsure of what to do. He could detect the outline of the red-headed boy sitting on his bed, but he couldn’t see any details, which unsettled him. Part of him was desperate to talk to someone who wouldn’t hit him and who would maybe look out for his well-being – tell him what he could expect at the castle. But another part was terrified of following the stranger into the shadows. So, he just stood there, peering into the darkness while the two emotions battled inside of him.

“Come on, Geralt,” whispered the red-head. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The little boy swallowed hard, and with his heart thumping in his chest, he took several steps forward until he was at the foot of the boy’s bed.

“You can sit if you want,” whispered Closs.

Geralt hesitated a moment before slowly moving to the edge of the bed, but he didn’t hop onto the straw-filled mattress. He just stood next to it on shaky legs.

“Damn, you’re tiny,” said the freckled boy. When Geralt didn’t respond, he continued.

“I tell you what – you can have the lower bunk. It’ll be easier for you to get into.”

Geralt gave a little nod.

“Thanks,” he replied in his high-pitched voice.

“You’re probably wondering about this place, right?”

The little boy again nodded his head.

“Well, the secret here is to be a ghost.”

“A…a ghost?”

“Yeah. Just blend in. Don’t get yourself noticed…ever,” said the red-head. “You met Master Kalen, right?’

Geralt nodded again.

“Then, you already know – you don’t want his eye ever looking right at you. That’s bad news. He’s in charge of the fodder’s morning training, by the way. So, just do what you’re supposed to do, be where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there. And if you can help it, don’t ever ask a Master Witcher or a velpe anything. If you have a question, then ask me or a fellow fodder.”

“What’s a velpe…and fodder?”

“The kid that you just met – Kastor - he’s a velpe. But don’t ever use that word around one of them, okay? They prefer the term PM. Stands for ‘pre-medallion.’ Velpen have gone through the Trial of Grasses, but they haven’t completed their training. Haven’t earned their medallion yet. And fodder…that’s the name for the rest of us. Got it?”

Geralt nodded his head, but he was positive that he didn’t ‘have’ it at all. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the red-head’s name even though he’d just heard it less than two minutes ago. The truth was that he was having a hard time focusing on the conversation because he was anxious about another matter - something that worried him much more than where he would actually sleep that evening.

“Uh…where…where do I go if...I need to go?”

“You mean to shit?”

He nodded.

“Right through the back door.”

Geralt could see the boy pointing a finger over his shoulder.

“There are a half-dozen piss and shit buckets out there,” answered Closs. “And, actually, you’re gonna get real familiar with ‘em. After supper, we fodder all have chores to do around the barracks, and it’s the newest fodder’s job to empty the buckets every night. In fact, I’m surprised that Hern isn’t already over here, making sure you know the job’s now yours. He must be asleep already. He’s gonna be really happy when he wakes up in the morning.”

oOo

Geralt was doing his best not to gag at the putrid smell as he stood over one of the waste buckets. He was breathing through his mouth and looking upward into the night sky, the snowflakes landing on his cheeks and mingling with his tears. He scrunched up his face and tried one more time urinate, but there was simply nothing left in his bladder. It was well past midnight, and, as far as Geralt could tell, all the other kids in the barracks were asleep. But the five-year old was forcing himself to stay awake for as long as he could. This was at least the fourth time he’d come out to the piss buckets in the last couple of hours.

The little boy finally sighed, knowing there was nothing else he could do. When he looked downward in order to tie his trousers, his eyes flashed toward the bucket’s contents and he gagged again, more tears coming to his eyes. 

He quickly turned away and moved towards the back door of the barracks, but he paused before he headed back inside. The tiny and exhausted boy suddenly felt overwhelmed with fear, and the tears exiting from his eyes were no longer due to the repulsive stench. But it wasn’t fear of nightmares that was keeping little Geralt awake.

“Don’t pee the bed,” he whispered to himself. “Please…please don’t pee the bed.”

Far as long as he could remember, he’d been a bed-wetter, and though his mother had never once scolded him for it, he nevertheless felt constant shame for he knew he was different. It wasn’t normal for a kid his age to still have problems with it. Back home, he’d had a couple of friends from the nearby village, but he’d never once spent the night with them even though he’d received invitations on numerous occasions. He’d always had his mother turn them down for he was too terrified of what would happen if they found out about his night-time accidents. And though he didn’t wet his bed every night, it still occurred too often for Geralt’s liking. But what had once simply been a minor inconvenience, he now knew could potentially become a very big problem.

There was no explanation as to why he hadn’t grown out of wetting the bed, but what was most disconcerting was that nothing that he and his mother tried seemed to work – whether it was drinking no liquids after mid-day or Visenna waking him up in the middle of the night and making him urinate. A year past, his mother had even crafted a special elixir for him to drink that was supposed to help, but it hadn’t solved the problem – at least, not perfectly. Once every couple of weeks, he’d still have an accident. And even if the elixir had worked to perfection, it didn’t matter now for he’d finished the last of it two nights previously. While he had not wet himself once in the last few weeks – or in the past two nights - while on the way to Kaer Morhen with the witcher Gardis, Geralt knew that that meant nothing. 

The cold, winter air suddenly sent a chill through him, bringing him out of his thoughts. He sniffled and then brought his arm up, wiping his tears on the sleeve of his coat. Eventually, he entered the barracks, but instead of going back to his bed, he sat down cross-legged in front of the fireplace. He wrapped himself up tightly in his coat, bringing the collar up over the bottom part of his face. He breathed in deeply, detecting an all-too-familiar scent – a scent that filled him with guilt and sadness and longing all at the same time.

“Mama,” he whispered to himself as he stared at the still-burning embers in the hearth, and a new tear fell down his cheek. “I don’t care what that mean man said. I know you’re my Mama.”

oOo

_Day 1 – Dothan; February 1194_

“Look at that, Roach,” said Geralt, with awe in his voice. “Just…look at that.”

The witcher and his horse had just crested a high hill, and he had immediately paused at what he saw before him. As his eyes scanned the horizon, the teen instantly knew where he was – Dothan - the smallest kingdom on the Continent but also, perhaps, the richest.

He was peering down at the Yaruga River, which dwarfed every other river that he’d come across in the three months since leaving Kaer Morhen. It was even wider than the Pontar. Geralt calculated that it was at least a half a mile from one bank to the other. Looking to the south, he could see the massive Tir Torchair mountain range off in the distance, with its northern-most ‘tail’ gradually descending toward the river’s southern bank. But it wasn’t the mountain range nor the river itself that had clued Geralt in to his current location. It was the enormous, stone bridge that spanned the entire width of the waterway.

The Anisberg bridge – one of the six modern wonders of the Continent – was an architectural marvel. Geralt honestly didn’t know how it could have been built. With its incredible length and its multiple, tall towers that were evenly spaced along the structure, he figured that there had to be more stone and rock on that bridge than in all of Kaer Morhen. And how had they been able to build its foundations down into the river bed, he wondered. Had they somehow damned off part of the river while they worked? 

“They had to have used magic,” he said out loud to Roach.

Just then, the sun began to peak over the Blue Mountains in the east, and as it did, he squinted his eyes at the bridge. Though it was still a long way off in the distance, he would swear that the sun’s rays were causing it to sparkle all over. He then nodded his head.

“Anisetz,” he whispered.

Anisetz was the most sought after – and, consequently, most valuable – gem on the Continent, and since the shiny rock could virtually be found only within Dothan’s borders, the tiny kingdom had become immensely wealthy. 

Geralt was certainly no expert on either the gem or the small kingdom, but, from his late-night readings, he was at least knowledgeable of some basic trivia. When one of Dothan’s previous kings – he couldn’t remember which one – had decided to build the impressive bridge spanning the Yaruga, he had chosen to use stones from Dothan itself – stones that still contained small, anisetz rocks embedded within. Seeing the massive bridge now twinkling at him in the morning sunlight, Geralt knew that, at least, that portion of his reading was accurate. He assumed that there had to be royal guards manning the bridge at all times of the day. He had no doubt that, otherwise, over the years, all of the anisetz rocks would have been chiseled out of the bridge’s stone by anyone and everyone looking for a quick influx of funds.

But the bridge wasn’t just famous due to its composition. Because of its size and stability, it was one of the major thoroughfares on the eastern side of the Continent. Nearly every merchant east of the Mahakam Mountains used the bridge as part of their trade routes. Any goods from the south that were on their way to Kaedwen, Aedirn, Rivia, or Lyria passed along the Anisberg bridge and vice versa.

Geralt let his eyes drift to his left, and he could just catch a glimpse of the tops of the highest towers of what he assumed to be the royal palace of Anisberg, but the rest of the palace – and the city itself – was obscured from his view by the trees of the surrounding woods. He paused and began to imagine the city in his mind. If its bridge was that impressive, then just how vast would the city be? And thinking of that brought a small frown to his face. He looked at his horse and exhaled deeply.

“Come on, girl,” he said. “We’ve gotta do what we’ve gotta do.”

He took a step down the hill with Roach dutifully following behind him.

oOo

Geralt paused in the woods as he heard noises coming from somewhere at his ten o’clock. He cautiously moved that way through the shrubs and trees when he eventually saw an eight-foot tall, stone wall in the distance. It appeared to the teen that he’d come across some sort of compound. On the other side of the barrier was a large, two-story building that took up most of the enclosed space, but there were a couple of smaller, one-story buildings inside the walls, as well. The witcher focused and thought he heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the compound so he made his way in that direction, following the wall towards the front. Eventually, he picked up the unmistakable sound of multiple men’s voices, and a few seconds later, he stepped out of the woods and onto a wide road that ran in front of the compound. He figured that at one end of that road he’d find the city of Anisberg. As he approached the open gate of the compound, he suddenly heard one man’s voice louder than the rest.

“Mount up!” the voice yelled.

Geralt immediately heard the clink of metal on metal and a few horse neighing. He quickly poked his head inside the gate and held his breath at what he saw.

_‘Knights!’_ he thought to himself.

Or, at least, they looked like knights to him. There were twelve of them on horseback, and they all wore shiny, silver breastplates, glistening scabbards at their waists, and sturdy shields on their arms. Then, the same voice spoke again.

“Consider this, Brother Kennit. My father won’t always rule this kingdom.”

The witcher’s eyes immediately found the speaker, who was astride a horse and facing a man standing on the top steps of the building’s portico. The speaker – and based on his words, Geralt figured that he was a prince of Dothan - then turned his horse and with a half-dozen armored riders on each side of him rode out of the compound and in the direction of Anisberg. Though the prince wore a sword at his side, unlike the others, he wore no armor and carried no shield. Instead, he was dressed in what Geralt assumed was the most expensive clothes he’d ever seen, which included a fur-lined cape on his back. Geralt didn’t think that the prince looked very old – no more than a decade or so older than himself – but the man’s cold, blue eyes, strong jaw, and the stubble-length, blond hair atop his pate exuded a very commanding presence. The teen immediately sensed that the prince was not one who was accustomed to hearing the word, ‘No,’ and he suddenly felt a deep, visceral – and inexplicable - animosity for the man, which confused him at first. But as he watched the prince and his guards ride towards the capital city, the answer finally dawned on him, and he gave a short nod of his head. The man undoubtedly reminded him of his uncompromising witcher instructors back at Kaer Morhen. 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “That would make me hate him all right.”

The teen was still staring after the knights when he heard a voice from behind him.

“Good morning, sir. I am Brother Kennit. May I help you in some way? Are you here to worship the Prophet?”

Geralt turned toward the voice, but his eyes immediately landed on a giant statue that stood in the middle of the compound, right in front of the main building. How in the world had he not noticed it before, he thought? Apparently, the prince and his knights had really grabbed his attention. He quickly glanced at the statue and saw that it was a thirty-foot tall stone carving of a robed man, who wore a knowing grin on his bearded face. He held a thick, open book in the crook of his left arm and held his right hand out and open, as if he was inviting strangers to come to him. The teen suddenly realized that he wasn’t standing in a compound but rather in a temple.

“Uh, no,” replied Geralt, dropping his eyes toward an older gentleman who was walking towards him. “I’m not.”

“Then, is it curiosity that’s brought you here?”

Now that there were no knights around to distract him, Geralt focused his attention on the approaching Brother Kennit. His brown hair – what was left of it - was tinged with gray, though he was almost completely bald on top. He wore a serene look on his face, and he walked with his arms crossed in front of him – both of his hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his dark brown, itchy-looking wool robe. 

“Do you seek to know of Lebioda’s teachings?”

At the mention of Lebioda, Geralt glanced at the statue and back again, and that’s when he saw the religious man’s eyes widen slightly.

“Oh, my apologies,” he remarked. “Silly me. I mistook you for my elder. The white hair confused me. But I see that you’re just a lad…and a witcher, as well.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“Does that matter?”

“No, no, of course not. The Prophet Lebioda welcomes all who come to him – just as they are.” Brother Kennit then smiled brightly. “Just don’t expect to stay that way. All who live by his teachings will be dramatically transformed – for his wisdom is the path to enlightenment.”

The teen stared at the priest for a moment.

“Is that right?”

“Oh, indeed.”  
  


“Alright. Answer me this, then. What does the _Great Wise One_ have to say about God? Does he believe that God exists?”

“Well, yes, he did believe in the Divine…but-”

“Then, that’s all I need to hear,” interrupted Geralt. “If he believed in God, then I’m not interested in anything he has to say.”

“Please, young witcher, please let me finish. Yes, Lebioda did believe in the Divine, but, perhaps, not as you think. He believed that the Divine dwells within us all, but that we are too blinded by our own selfish ambitions and destructive desires to see Him. But if we would only follow Lebioda’s teachings, then we could all find the Divine within. And that is what heaven is…when we have found the peace that comes with living according to the Great Prophet’s counsel.”

“Well, that sounds…fantastic,” the teen said straight-faced. “Maybe I’ll try that later, but, right now, I’m not looking for the Divine or enlightenment. I’m looking for a woman -named Visenna. Pretty with red hair, green eyes, mid to late forties – though, she may not look that old. I don’t really know for sure.”

“No, no, I’m sorry. I know of no woman with that name or description,” said the priest, shaking his head. “When would she have come through here?”

“I don’t know. Could have been as far back as…a decade or so ago.”

“Oh my, then, gracious no. I’ve only been the head priest of this temple for…roughly two years now – ever since poor Brother Johan…well, that’s neither here nor there. Who is this woman to you?”

“Just…someone important. That’s all.”

“Well, then, I pray that the Great Prophet will grant you blessings on your search. Are you sure that I can’t give you your own copy of ‘The Good Book’ – Lebioda’s teachings – to take with you on your journey?”

The witcher stared at the man for several long moments before finally answering.

“Sure, why not?” said Geralt, thinking that he could always sell it or use the pages to wipe himself.

“Oh, excellent! Excellent!” said Brother Kennit, reaching into the satchel on his hip. “I always carry a spare for just this occasion.”

Geralt accepted the tome and then placed into one of his saddle bags on the back of Roach.

“So, young witcher, where does your journey take you next?”

“I guess to Anisberg. It’s the closest city to here, right?”

Immediately, Geralt noticed the priest’s face change. The smile that he’d been wearing during their entire conversation fell from his face to be replaced with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

“Oh, my lad,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no. Heed my warning and steer clear of there. That once pious city has turned into…into a seductress for carnality. It may sparkle like a beautiful gem, but it’s nothing more than soulless husk - fetid and rotten to its core.”

“Really?” Geralt asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Oh, yes, yes, my young witcher,” said Brother Kennit with urgency. “There is a darkness - a curse! – yes, a curse that has befallen it. Only trouble awaits you there.”

Geralt peered intently at Brother Kennit, sweat suddenly visible on the holy man’s forehead. He then turned his head and looked down the wide road towards Anisberg. Because of the trees and hills, the city wasn’t visible at all – not even off in the distance. All that was visible were peaceful, rolling meadows lit up by a bright, early morning, winter sun. The idyllic scene in front of him certainly elicited no portent of evil. Eventually, he turned back towards the priest.

“Well, then…I guess it’s lucky I now have ‘The Good Book,’ isn’t it? Surely, Lebioda’s wisdom - and _the Divine -_ will protect me while I’m there, right? I mean, otherwise, what good is it?”

oOo

“Son of a bitch,” the witcher whispered to himself as he and Roach stood on the outskirts of Anisberg, his eyes scanning from the northern edge of the city all to the way to the Yaruga River at its southern border.

Dothan may have been the smallest kingdom on the Continent, but its capital city had to be one of the largest. There must have been thousands of huts and hovels outside the city walls alone. There was no telling how many more people resided inside the city, itself. He figured that the odds of finding his mother in there would literally be one in ten-thousand.

He let his eyes drift higher – past the thatched rooves of the single-story dwellings - to the fifty-foot high, outer wall of the city. He didn’t know how thick the wall was, but it looked formidable. Like the city’s bridge, it too was made of stone, and it had multiple towers interspersed along its length and countless cauldrons atop its parapet. Cauldrons that he assumed could be filled with boiling, hot tar if the need arose. He could also see dozens of guards walking back and forth atop the rampart. He swallowed as he cast his gaze above the wall. Half of the sky seemed to be filled by the upper half of the royal palace. There was no doubt in the witcher’s mind that it was taller than the keep at Kaer Morhen. 

The teen slowly rubbed his hand over his jaw as his eyes continued to take in the sight before him, and he exhaled deeply. Just thinking about entering that mass and mess of humanity made his heart start to thump. After leaving Kaer Morhen, it had taken him almost three months to first make his way to Rivia and then to find his boyhood home. During that time, he’d come across a handful of large cities – Ard Carraigh, Vergen, Vengerberg, and Aldersberg – just to name of few, and every time, he had kept his distance. At the time, he had told himself it was because he had to hurry to Rivia – to find his mother. But, now, he didn’t have that excuse. In fact, if he was going to ever find her, then he would have to start searching everywhere – villages and cities both. And then he slowly dropped his chin to his chest and stared at the ground as he realized what was going on inside of him. There was a reason he was leery of the place, and it had nothing to do with the priest’s silly warnings.

The truth was that he had never set foot inside of any city before. For the past decade, he’d been confined to Kaer Morhen and the surrounding mountains, and prior to that, he’d only known his boyhood home – a two-room hut that was a mile outside of a small Rivian village. In the last few weeks – since finding his childhood home abandoned – he had traveled through the southern parts of Rivia, stopping and chatting with the country peasants along the way – hoping that any of them had seen his mother. That alone - learning to interact with people in the outside world again – had been quite awkward at first, and he still wasn’t truly confident in conversing with non-witchers. But, even then, he knew that if things became too uncomfortable, then he could easily leave the village and be back in the woods by himself in a matter of seconds. But in a city – with walls? He might get lost in there – with thousands of people crowding in on him – and never get out. So, that’s what it was. It was simple. He was afraid. He couldn’t believe it, but he actually felt more anxious standing there on the perimeter of the city than he had eight weeks ago, prior to facing the leshen. How could that be, he thought?

The teen stood still for several minutes, alone in his thoughts until he finally shook his head and sighed. It didn’t matter if he was afraid. He had to do this – for her. Because she would have done it for him. She would’ve died for him – hell, she may very well have for all he knew. He sighed again and swallowed.

“Come on, Roach,” he said, turning back to his only friend. “Let’s go knock on some doors.”

oOo

It was mid-morning by the time that Geralt reached the city’s western gate. He had quickly decided that simply going around and knocking on every hut’s door would be an incredibly inefficient use of time. So, instead, he began visiting businesses. He inquired at a laundress, a butcher, a couple of taverns, and he even found an outdoor market that was full of vendors. But no one had seen or even heard of a woman named Visenna – though many of them did try to sell him their goods. He eventually made his way to the city’s gate where he found a small hut with a sign out front that simply read, ‘Constable.’

The witcher wrapped Roach’s reins on a hitching post and entered the one-room shack. There was a small jail at the back of the room and a couple of chairs and tables in the middle, with a solitary man sitting at one of them.

“Whadda you want, old man?” asked the constable, who, after glancing at Geralt when he’d first walked through the door, quickly dropped his gaze back down to the book on his table in front of him.

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“Ha! Aren’t we all, old man. Aren’t we all.”

“I, uh, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing,” said the teen.

“No? What – got no steel in your sword anymore, old-timer?” said the constable, rising from his chair and ambling towards the front counter where the witcher stood. Halfway there, the man stopped short.

“Holy hell,” he whispered. “You ain’t no old man.”

Geralt did his best not to roll his eyes. He must have had the same conversation a dozen times in the last two hours.

“Yeah, I know. I’m…younger than at first glance.”

“I don’t give a damn about that. You’re a – you’re a _witcher_.”

Before Geralt could even reply, the man was already back at his desk and grabbing his coat off of the back of the chair.

“You – you gotta wait here, okay?” said the constable as he hurried toward the front door, putting on his coat along the way. “Don’t move. Captain Birke will wanna talk with you.”

And then he was gone.

Geralt looked around the empty room for just a second before whispering, “To hell with this.”

He had no idea who this Captain Birke was, but he was pretty sure that he didn’t want anything to do with him – not if the man was interested in his witcher skills. Geralt had sworn that the leshen contract would be his only one, and despite the fact that he was down to his last couple of orens, he wanted to hold to that self-made promise. It was two months on, and he still got angry every time that he thought about how he’d been cheated by Alderman Stipe. And the anger would turn to fury when he remembered how Donal – Stipe’s son – had talked down to him. He’d honestly thought that he’d left that sort of disrespect behind when he’d fled Kaer Morhen but apparently not. Regardless, if that was how witchers were treated in the ‘civilized’ world, then he wanted no part of it. Plus, his focus at the moment was on finding his mother, not killing monsters.

The teen quickly headed outside and grabbed Roach’s reins, but he paused as he stood before the large, open city gate. There were a couple of bored-looking guards standing at either side of the entrance, but after a glance in their direction, he didn’t look at them again. He was focused on the city itself. From what he could see, it couldn’t be more different than the outer community in which he’d spent the morning. The streets were cobblestone instead of dirt and mud, and instead of being constructed from moldy and rotten wood, the buildings inside were made of smooth stone, and – he couldn’t believe it - the windows actually had glass in them. He gazed up the street at the pedestrians passing by and saw immediately that, inside the city, one’s attire drastically changed, as well. While no one was wearing anything as remotely elegant as the outfit that he’d seen the prince wearing that morning, everyone’s clothes were clearly of high quality. Suddenly, a single word popped into the witcher’s mind – ‘clean.’ The streets, the buildings, the people – the entire city - just looked clean. 

Geralt then looked down at himself and sighed. There was mud on his boots. His trousers and gambeson were filthy - stained with dirt and blood. Multiple, stitched-up tears covered his clothes, and the fabric was incredibly threadbare at the knees and elbows. And he knew that he had a pretty awful smell. In fact, he couldn’t even remember the last time that he’d actually washed. His last pseudo-bath had occurred weeks ago when he’d been drenched in a rain-storm. He figured that Roach was actually cleaner than he was – which made sense given that he took the time to brush her coat out as often as he could. 

_‘Hell, I’ll be shocked if they even let me in,’_ he thought to himself as he brought his eyes back up to the two guards.

He slowly made his way to the city gate where, surprisingly, they did let him enter – though, one of the guards did offer a warning of, “Behave yourself, witcher.”

The teen then spent the rest of the morning scouring the city, stopping at a sundry of shops - jewelers, lapidaries, boutiques, and banks. Out of respect – and embarrassment of his current state - he’d always stop at the threshold of the front door. He didn’t want to bring his filth and odor inside their places of business. But, despite speaking with dozens of city residents, he had no luck. None had heard of or seen Visenna. And while that certainly wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for, it wasn’t entirely unexpected. However, there was something else that was bothering the witcher. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there seemed to be an unease with everyone he talked to. At first, he just chalked it up to how he looked and smelled or, maybe, just the fact that he was a mutated, monster-killer. But the longer he spent conversing and watching the citizens of Anisberg, the more convinced he became that their unease was due to something else. Maybe the Lebiodan priest had been right, he thought. He didn’t think there was a curse overhanging the city, but there was definitely something weighing on its residents.

Geralt had just finished up a conversation with a nurse on the front steps of the local hospital and was about to look for a place to eat lunch when he heard metallic clinking coming from behind him. He quickly turned to see a dozen, royal guards striding purposefully up the street – right in his direction. They all had swords on their hips and armed crossbows in their hands. None were pointing their weapons at him, but the looks on their faces were unmistakable. It was a look he’d seen hundreds of times in his life. They were clearly ready for a fight. 

He stood still just watching them approach until they finally stopped about fifteen feet away, and it was then that his eyes locked onto a man in the middle of the formation. This man’s hands were empty – though he was resting one hand on the pommel of his sword – and, while the rest of the guards had stopped, he continued moving forward in the witcher’s direction. As he came closer, Geralt studied his features. His clothes were spotless, and the sun sparkled off his silver breastplate. He was about Geralt’s height and build, and his short, black hair was severely parted at the side and flattened to his skull with some kind of greasy substance. His dark hair and matching, waxed mustache accentuated his pale skin. But the witcher wasn’t sure that his skin was naturally pale. It had a sickly pallor to it, and the man carried some dark rings under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“I am Sir Alyn Birke,” announced the man, coming to a stop several paces from the witcher. “Captain of His Majesty’s royal guard. And you were told to wait at the constable’s hut. It took us over an hour to track you down.”

Geralt – just as he had with the prince that morning – felt an immediate dislike for the captain.

“I’ve been told to do a lot of things in my life,” he replied, boring his eyes into Birke’s.

“And, yet, you still clearly don’t know how to follow simple orders. Now, come with me, witcher. The king requests an audience.”

“The _king_ …wants to see _me_?”

“Yes, King Travid – the ruler of this realm,” replied Birke slowly, as if was speaking to a dimwit. “Or, are you choosing to disregard His Majesty’s desires?”

At that, he raised a finger off to his side. Immediately, all the guards behind him lifted their crossbows to their shoulders. Geralt quickly glanced over Birke’s shoulder at the men behind him and then back into the captain’s eyes. Finally, he gave a small sigh.

“How could I ever refuse the king?”

oOo

“I’d like to apologize for Sir Alyn,” said King Travid with a smile. “But what he may lack in social graces he makes up for with implacable duty. In fact, I’ve never met a more duty-bound man in my life…which is good, as he is the captain of my guard. I can drink a lot easier knowing he’s watching my back.”

The monarch chuckled and took a large gulp from his golden goblet. He and Geralt were sitting alone in a pavilion in the middle of the spacious royal gardens located on the back side of the palace. Because the royal residence had been built on a small hill, the teen could look over the back wall of the palace grounds to the wide Yaruga River flowing slowly westward, and though it was still just the second month of the year, with the sun shining brightly and very little wind, the winter air was quite bearable. The witcher wasn’t sure if the outdoor location had been specifically picked due to his smell, but regardless, he was thankful for it. Standing five feet behind the king was the captain himself, and encircling the pavilion – situated just out of ear-shot – was a squad of his men. Birke had insisted that Geralt remove his weapons before meeting with the ruler, and the teen had complied. Though, he thought it was a bit silly. If he wanted to kill the king, he wouldn’t need a blade to do so. ‘All men burn,’ he could remember Vesemir saying.

He glanced at the captain before looking at the king and nodding.

“It’s no big deal. I’ve dealt with unpleasant people my whole life.”

“Right, right,” replied the king, an uncomfortable look quickly coming to his face. “I’m sure you have…which brings me to why you’re here. We’ve had a bit of… _unpleasantness_ here in the palace. The kind that I’m hoping you can resolve.”

Geralt paused and looked closely at the monarch once more. He was still amazed that the man in front of him was, apparently, the father of the prince he’d seen just a few hours before at the Lebioda temple. The two men couldn’t carry themselves more differently if they’d tried. While the prince had looked hard and disciplined, the king appeared weak and soft. The witcher figured that he was at least fifty pounds overweight with the beginnings of a second chin already on display. His crown sat askew on his balding head, and his nose and cheeks were flushed red like those of a perpetual drinker. Geralt couldn’t guess his age. He was probably somewhere in his forties, but a life of excess and ease had added at least ten years to his looks.

The teen watched the king grab a bit of meat from a platter on the table in between them and then turn slightly in his chair. He reached down and placed the meat right near the snout of the fattest dog that Geralt had ever seen. It was a Dachshund hound that was, essentially, resting solely on its enormous belly. Its short legs were spread so wide by its girth that its paws barely touched the floor of the pavilion. He wasn’t sure how the dog was able walk or, hell, if it even could. The huge mutt had been carried out to the pavilion by one of the royal guards.

“You’re a good boy, Pumpkin. Yes, you are,” said the king in a playful voice as the hound scarfed down the meat and wagged its tail.

Once the monarch was done with the dog, he wiped his drool-covered hand on his trousers and then had another drink from his goblet.

“I’ll be honest, King Travid,” said Geralt, trying to bring the conversation back on point, “and I mean no disrespect, but I’m really not interested in taking on a contract right now. I’ve got, well, more pressing issues at hand.”

“Well, just wait now, Geralt,” Travid said urgently. “Just wait. At least hear me out before you make a decision.”

The teen sighed and said, “Yes, sir.”

“It’s ‘Your Majesty,’” growled out Captain Birke. “You address the king as, ‘Your Majesty.’”

“Sir Alyn, it’s quite alright,” said Travid, raising his hand in Birke’s direction. “I doubt the young witcher here as ever been in the presence of royalty. We can excuse his ignorance of court protocol.” He then leaned forward with a smile and whispered, “See what I mean? He never relaxes. He’s all duty and formality, all the time.”

“Yeah, I see. So, how about you tell me about this unpleasantness…Your Majesty.”

“Right, right. Well, it seems that we have a monster problem here in the palace. Right after the New Year began, my dear wife was found in her bed-chamber one morning…well, let’s just say she was butchered.”

“And there’s no doubt it was the work of a monster?”

“Well, I didn’t view the body in situ – or even later at the funeral – but the Captain here and the palace physician – Doctor Dermitt – assured me it was the work of some beast.”

Geralt furrowed his brow.

“That was almost two months ago. If it hasn’t struck again since then, I don’t see how I’ll ever be able to track it down.”

The king emptied his chalice, quickly refilled his cup, and took another gulp.

“Yes, well, unfortunately it did strike again. About three weeks ago, my stepdaughter was killed – we think by the same monster.”

“Is that it? Two attacks in…almost two months?”

“Yes.”

“Did anyone see anything? Hear anything? Get a description of the monster? Did you find tracks?”

“No. Nothing. It’s a complete mystery how the beast got into their rooms and then got out.”

Geralt shook his head.

“Your Majesty, I’m sorry, but…even if I wanted to take this contract – which I don’t - I don’t think there’s much I can do. The trail’s too cold. At this point, the only way I could ever catch the monster is if it showed itself again.”

“I understand, I understand, but perhaps this will change your mind.”

The king then placed a coin-pouch on the table in between them.

“That’s fifty Dothan crowns. As an advance. You’ll get another _five-hundred_ if you find and slay the monster. I want it caught before it kills again.”

Geralt’s eyes quickly moved to the pouch, and he swallowed. He wasn’t exactly sure how many meals a single Dothan crown would buy, but he figured it was several. And five hundred of them? That would free him up to search for his mother for months without having to scavenge for food in the forests. But did he really want to take another witcher contract?

_‘It’s not worth it,’_ he thought to himself. _‘You are not a witcher. To hell with that life.’_

The teen was just about to give the king his answer when he heard a young voice crying out from behind him.

“Papa! Papa!”

He turned in his chair and saw a small boy running in his direction with an older woman chasing behind him. A few seconds later, the boy ran up the steps of the pavilion and into the king’s waiting arms.

“Well, look who’s here. My big boy!” said the king as he pulled the tiny lad into his lap.

“I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” said the woman a moment later, slightly out of breath. “He finished his lunch and wanted to see you.”

“That’s quite alright, Cici,” said the king with a laugh. “He’s a prince…of the House Dothan. He gets what he wants.”

Geralt stared down into the little boy’s face, and the lad’s eyes suddenly went wide. The small prince immediately turned his head away and buried his face into the king’s chest.

“He got cat eyes, Papa,” Geralt heard the boy whisper.

“Well, yes, he does, but it’s okay. He’s a witcher, Nigel.”

“A witcha? What’s a witcha?”

“A witcher is a monster slayer, son. They hunt down and kill monsters.”

The little boy was silent for a moment and then pulled his face away from his father’s chest. He glanced at Geralt but quickly looked away again. He then looked up into King Travid’s face.

“Is…is he gonna find da monsta dat killed Mummy…and Milla?”

“That was just what we were discussing, Nigel.” The king turned his eyes towards the witcher. “So, Geralt, what’s your answer?”

Geralt was staring intently at the little boy who was holding on tightly to his father - a clearly frightened, little boy who’d lost his mother to a monster less than two months ago. And it was then that an image flashed through the witcher’s mind – an image that he unfortunately knew very well. It was an image that he’d seen every night in his nightmares for over a decade. Eventually, the teen let out a small sigh and swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said, bringing his eyes up to meet the king’s. “I’ll do it.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Kaer Morhen – Winter 1182_

Geralt stood shivering in the early morning air with his wet hair and soaked clothes plastered to his skin. He hugged himself tightly and clenched his jaws as hard as he could to keep his teeth from chattering while all around him came the mocking chants of a dozen or more boys.

“Piss boy! Piss boy!”

A tall, blond-haired velpe dunked a bucket into the horse’s trough, and after filling it to the brim, he again poured it over the little boy’s head. He then bent down, his face just a few inches from Geralt’s, and audibly sniffed in through his nose. He slowly rose to full height.

“You still stink, runt,” he said.

As the velpe turned back to the trough to re-fill the bucket for a third time, Geralt suddenly heard the taunts go silent. He looked up to see the crowd parting and Master Kalen walking towards him.

“Oi, Steej, what goes here?”

Immediately, the velpe dropped the bucket and turned around to face the one-eyed witcher.

“The new fodder pissed himself last night, Master Kalen,” he answered with a smile. “I was simply helping the little runt get rid of his stench.”

Kalen shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.

“I’m gonna kill Gardis,” he said in a low voice. “Looks like I was wrong about you last night,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Apparently, you still need your nappies, after all.”

That comment elicited a few chuckles.

Kalen sighed as he looked at the shivering little by. 

“Does me no good if you die of hypothermia. Follow me…Piss Boy.”

The tall witcher immediately turned and started walking away.

“The rest of you get to the AA!” he yelled.

“Yes, Master Kalen!” everyone shouted in unison, and they took off at a sprint up towards the second level of the fortress.

Geralt kept his eyes down, looking at the back of Kalen’s boots, as he ran to keep up with the tall man’s strides. Less than a minute later, they arrived at the assembly-area in front of the barracks, and Kalen stood before all the velpen and fodder who were already lined up in rows.

“Steej, get ‘em warmed up. I’ll be out shortly,” barked Kalen before heading towards the barracks.

Geralt continued to follow behind him, but he kept his head down. He didn’t dare look any of the other boys in the eyes, not now – not after them finding out that he was a bed-wetter. The little boy was so lost in his shame that he didn’t even realize where Kalen was taking him until he heard the master witcher tell him to stop, and he suddenly became aware of his surroundings.

He was standing at the threshold of a closet inside the barracks, and he was amazed at what he was seeing. Both on the floor and on shelves were dozens of stacks of clothes that were piled higher than he was tall. Stacks of shirts, trousers, undershirts, jackets, and thick coats. Near the door was an enormous wooden crate filled with a variety of shoes and boots. Geralt had never seen so much clothing in his life. He wondered where it all came from. He looked at Kalen and noticed him rummaging through different piles. After about a minute, he turned and looked at Geralt.

“You’ll have to make do with these,” he said before tossing various articles of clothing towards the little boy. “We got nothing your size. Now, get changed.”

After Kalen stepped out of the closet, Geralt quickly removed his damp clothing and dressed in what the master witcher had given him. While it felt nice to get into dry clothes, the little boy didn’t feel any better about himself. He knew that he must look ridiculous, for the clothes absolutely swallowed him. Geralt did his best to solve the issue by tightening his belt as much as he could and by rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and the cuffs of his trousers. He glanced at what he was wearing and noticed that the material was quite worn, but at least it was clean and warm. He quickly scooped up his own clothes and exited the closet to see Kalen staring down at him.

“Listen close, Piss Boy. One of my tasks here is to toughen you up - enough to face the Trials. So, you’ll eat plenty. You’ll sleep plenty. And you’ll wash both your nasty ass and your clothes a minimum of once a week. Filth leads to sickness and disease, and it does us no good if you die before the Trials. So, you’re going to train with the rest of the fodder today, but tonight, you will wash your piss-stained clothes. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Kalen.”

The master witcher peered closely at the bundle of clothes in Geralt’s arms.

“You can keep what you’ve got there except for the coat. There’s no way you can train in something that size. Hell, you can barely even walk in it. After you wash it tonight, put it in the closet. One of my velpen might like it.”

“No!” Geralt cried out, and then his eyes went wide, realizing what he’d just done. “Please…please, Master Kalen. It’s my mama’s coat. Please let me keep it. Please.”

The scarred-witcher looked down at the little boy, not saying a word. Finally, he said, “Your _mommy’s_ coat, huh?” Then, he held out his hand. “Well, let’s have a look at it, shall we?”

Geralt, holding the coat – and the rest of his clothes – tightly to his chest, stared at the man’s outstretched hand, up into his eye, and then back at the hand. Eventually, he swallowed hard and handed over the garment.

Kalen carefully lifted the coat up in front of him with both hands, and Geralt noticed that he suddenly sniffed through his mangled nose. After a moment, the witcher slowly brought the coat to his face and inhaled deeply along the collar. He looked at Geralt and a leering smile came to his face.

“You’re not lying, Piss Boy. It does smell like woman,” he said with a nod.

Geralt could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t know what to say so he just nodded back.

“Is this the only thing of hers you have?” asked Kalen.

The boy nodded again. “Yes, Master Kalen.”

Kalen didn’t say anything for the longest time, just staring into Geralt’s face with his one, good eye. Finally, he broke the silence.

“I told you last night…this is your home, now. Forget your family. Whatever you had out there,” he said, pointing with his left hand, “is dead.” 

Then, a small sneer came to his disfigured face. Geralt watched as the witcher slowly held the coat out to his side in his right hand and brought his left hand across his body. Suddenly, bright, orange fire filled Geralt’s vision as his mother’s coat was engulfed in Igni flames.

oOo

Geralt, carrying his freshly-washed clothes in his arms, trudged towards the horses’ stables – the same stables where he’d been doused with buckets of water by Steej just twelve hours before. He was amazed to realize that that humiliation had only occurred that morning because it seemed like a lifetime ago to the little boy. The entire day had been one of constant and immense stress – either physical, emotional, mental, or all of the above. 

Almost immediately after watching his mother’s coat turned to ash, he was sent out to run The Gauntlet with the rest of the fodder. Of course, he had no idea just what The Gauntlet was, and he was too embarrassed to ask anyone. And his anxiety level increased all the more when Kalen made an announcement to the young boys.

“Today, in honor of our newest guest, Piss Boy”- at this, Geralt heard derisive laughter around him - “I’m reinstituting the Trial of Bruises.”

That declaration was met with mostly smiles, but there were a few in the crowd who scowled and, then, glared at Geralt, as if this new detail was his fault.

For the next hour, Geralt ran, climbed, and crawled through the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. Even though he was a fit and healthy boy, he was by-far the slowest in the bunch. Being as little as he was, his strides were simply too short to allow him to keep up with the rest. That didn’t even take into account the times when he’d simply come to a stop – typically on the edge of some twenty-foot-deep ravine. There would always be some type of ‘bridge’ available for crossing to the other side – usually a felled tree trunk – but, every time, Geralt chose to eschew the bridge in favor of simply climbing down one side of the steep ravine and then up the other. And while that decision may have been prudent, it also severely added to his time in finishing the race.

Even though he was so far in the back that he could no longer see or hear the next fodder in front of him, the trail was so worn that he had no trouble in eventually finding his way back to the starting area. Once there, he quickly discovered just what the Trial of Bruises entailed. Whoever came in first was allowed to punch the second-place finisher as hard as he wanted anywhere but the face or groin. Then, the third-place finisher would receive blows from first two. The fourth-place finisher would get hit by the first three and so on. Thus, the worse one finished, the more beating they had to endure. By the time Geralt finished The Gauntlet – both out of breath and sweat pouring from his face - there were two lines of boys waiting for him, waiting to beat him black and blue. Most of them simply punched him in the shoulders or arms, but a few chose his stomach as their target. 

Years later, when he thought back on it, Geralt realized that as far as he could tell none of the boys ever softened their blows – not even those who had finished near the back of the pack. He thought that those who were the slowest and, therefore, took the most punches would be sympathetic to the ones who were even slower. To show them a little kindness. But that just wasn’t the case. Perhaps, it was because all the boys knew that Master Kalen was always watching them closely and that he never tolerated weakness of any kind. And like most every other witcher at Kaer Morhen, Kalen viewed compassion as a weakness. Or, perhaps, it was simply because they had learned well the maxims taught at the Wolf School. Mottos like, “Witchers know no fear,” or “No coin, no killing.” Or “Poor performance brings painful consequences,” so, in this case, they were simply doing their part to motivate those slower than themselves to train harder. 

But, eventually, Geralt came to realize that none of them ever pulled their punches for a different reason. They were all taught from their earliest days that witchers lived a solitary existence on the Path. They would have no wife, no brothers, and no teammates. They had no one to rely on but themselves when facing down monsters. Thus, the witcher cadre never taught or encouraged the idea of teamwork at Kaer Morhen. In fact, they made an effort to stamp it out if they saw it. So, there was never any support or encouragement amongst the fodder or velpen. Everyone simply looked out for themselves, leaving no room for empathy or compassion.

And, in time, Geralt also learned that there were some who simply fell into a ‘special’ category – the ones who just truly enjoyed inflicting pain on others. Pain was an everyday part of life at Kaer Morhen. It either broke a person, or it hardened them. And for the truly hardened, hurting others seemed to be the only thing that would bring them any kind of real pleasure. It was as if life had poured so much pain and misery into them that pain and misery was, therefore, the only things that could ever come out.

But all of those were thoughts that Geralt wouldn’t have until many years later, with the perspective of hindsight and wisdom. That night, there were more immediate concerns crossing the bruised little boy’s mind. He wondered if his mother was alive – for the last time he’d seen her, she was bleeding out and dying. He wondered if he could ever find her. And he wondered if he could simply find someplace warm and safe to sleep that night.

Just a few minutes earlier, he’d been heading towards his bunk when Steej had confronted him. Their conversation had been short.

“You’re not sleeping here, Piss Boy.”

“Um…okay,” said the exhausted five-year-old. And then Geralt looked around for an open bunk. Seeing one across the aisle, he started walking that way when Steej grabbed him roughly by the shirt collar.

“You’re not sleeping there, either, runt. You’re not gonna sleep anywhere in this barracks. If you’re gonna piss yourself like an animal, then you can sleep outdoors like one. It stinks bad enough in here already without you adding to the stench.”

“But…where…where will I sleep,” asked the little boy.

“Does it look like I give a damn?”

Geralt had left the barracks and had only briefly glanced upward at the foreboding keep. Despite his age, even he knew better than to go knocking on the large, front door and asking any witcher who answered if he could sleep there. Thus, he turned to his right and headed towards the front gate until he found himself standing in front of the stables. Even with a full moon, he saw nothing but darkness when he peered inside through the open barn doors. The darkness made him pause, but he realized that he didn’t have any other place to go. And, fortunately, he was already familiar with the stables, having spent an hour in there that afternoon, mucking out the stalls on orders from Yastic, the groundskeeper. 

Not knowing what else to do, Geralt breathed in deeply and entered the barn. The horses inside sensed his presence and a few neighed in response, which actually comforted the little boy. It was the unknown that frightened him, and at least the horses were known entities. And if they were alive, then that probably meant that there were no foul monsters lurking within.

After a minute, after his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he walked over to a stack of horse blankets and grabbed the one on top. He took it into an empty stall, placed the blanket on the ground, and then retrieved another blanket from the stack before returning to the stall. He lay down, covered himself with the second blanket, and used his balled-up shirt as a pillow.

Though he was incredibly tired, he couldn’t turn his mind off, and he thought back over the events of the day. After the Gauntlet and the Trial of Bruises, the boys returned to the barracks for breakfast, and he searched for Closs, hoping that his red-headed bunk-mate would prove to be a friendly face. But those hopes were short-lived.

“No offense, Geralt,” Closs had whispered as they stood in line to get some morning chow, “but I can’t be seen with you…not after…you know…you pissed yourself. Life is hard enough here. Talking with you would just be asking for trouble.”

So, the little boy had eaten alone - both then and at lunch and dinner. And the rest of the day, whether he was going through more physical training, whether he was being taught the basics of various witcher disciplines in some ‘classrooms’ on the first floor of the keep, or whether he was performing some duties in the barracks, he heard not one kind word spoken to him. If the other fodder and velpen weren’t ignoring him, then they were outright mocking him.

Through it all, he had vowed not to cry in front of them. He’d already humiliated himself by wetting the bed. He didn’t want to make it worse by shedding any tears. He’d always dreamt of being a knight, and knights were supposed to brave. They certainly didn’t cry, he thought to himself. But now that he was finally alone, the stress of the day and the past few weeks overwhelmed him, and he began to sob in the darkness. He’d never felt more alone and scared, and he feared what the morrow would bring.

Suddenly, Geralt was brought out of his thoughts by a soft noise coming from right in front of his face. He opened his eyes and was about to scream when what he saw made him pause. Just enough moonlight was coming in through various openings of the barn that he could discern the outline of a small creature less than a foot away. He’d seen the animal earlier in the day when he’d been in the stalls and had wondered where it had come from. He had tried to approach it, but it had scampered away. But, now, it seemed curious of the little boy. 

Geralt cautiously brought his hand out from underneath the horse blanket and slowly reached out for the small predator. He held his breath as he inched his hand forward, afraid of what the animal’s reaction would be. Finally, his fingertips made contact, and he began to run his hand over its smooth hair several times. And then, he heard it. The cat began to purr. A moment later, the feline brought his head low and sniffed around Geralt’s face, bumping his small nose against the boy’s once or twice. And for the first time that day – probably for the first time in weeks – Geralt smiled.

“I’ll name you ‘Marmalade,’” whispered Geralt to the orange and white cat.

And just a short while later, the little boy fell asleep with a purring Marmalade curled up next to him.

oOo

_Day 1 – Dothan; February 1194_

The witcher was crouched down low, peering intently at the stone floor next to a four-poster bed. Eventually, he let out a small sigh and stood.

“Well, whoever cleaned this room needs a raise,” he said, “because I can’t detect even a trace of blood in here, much less a print of any kind. And you said the floor was covered with the princess’s blood?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘covered,’” replied Captain Birke, who stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Most of the blood was confined to the sheets and the mattress, but there were some splatters on the floor…with a few spots heading towards the balcony.”

Geralt looked over at Birke and furrowed his brow.

“Are you okay?” the teen asked. “You…don’t look so good.” 

The captain immediately lifted his eyes from the bed and stared at Geralt. He swallowed and wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

“Yes,” he said and then cleared his throat. “Yes, witcher, I’m fine. I just…as captain of the royal guard, the attacks on Queen Elize and Princess Camilla are hitting very close to home. They should not have happened on my watch.”

Geralt didn’t say anything to that. He just stared at the man and nodded. He knew something of guilt.

The teen looked down at the bed again but saw no need to reinspect it. Only the frame remained. The sheets, mattress, and curtains had been burned weeks ago – right after the attack. He looked around the spacious room and was, once again, in awe of the ostentatious display of wealth. Princess Camilla had certainly enjoyed the finer things in life. It seemed as if everything in the room – from the candle sticks to her hand-held mirror – were inlaid with silver or gold and encrusted with jewels – the most common jewel being anisetz, of course. His eyes landed on a large, oil painting that hung above an empty fireplace on the opposite side of the room. He could freely admit that the princess was incredibly attractive. Either that or the painter had taken some serious artistic liberties with the portrait. 

The witcher continued to stare at the young woman’s face. She appeared to be in her late teens, and he was mesmerized. She looked like a picture of innocence. What a waste, he thought, that someone so young and beautiful would be taken so early – and in such a brutal way. What hopes had she held? What dreams had she cherished that would now be forever unfulfilled? He didn’t know, and he would never know. He suddenly felt a sadness but also a deep resolve within – even stronger than he’d felt on the pavilion an hour before, and he slowly exhaled and nodded his head – making a promise to both himself and the dead princess. He couldn’t bring her back, but he’d do what he could to find the monster that killed her. Her death demanded justice, and he was going to get it for her. For her and for young, prince Nigel who had lost his mother.

He nodded his head one more time and finally broke his gaze.

“Okay…let’s check out the balcony,” he whispered to himself. 

He began slowly walking towards the balcony, carefully inspecting the floor along the way. But there were no clues to be found. He stopped at the threshold of the balcony and looked at the double doors that were wide open. He closely inspected the wood – especially around the door handles, but he saw no scratches or indications of any type of forced entry. He shut the doors to the balcony and noticed that they could be locked from the inside. He slid the metal bar over – locking the doors – and then slid it back. After pulling the doors open again, he turned back toward Birke.

“Were these doors open or closed when her body was found?”

“They were open.”

“Do you know if she locked these doors at night – before bed?”

Birke shook his head.

“We advised her to. After the queen’s death, we advised everyone to take extra precautions, but…I can’t say for sure if the princess did or not. But, now, everyone does. And we’ve also reinforced the balcony doors on King Travid’s bedchambers. Prince Roope and Nigel’s, as well.”

The witcher nodded at hearing that.

“And that door,” said Geralt, pointing his chin towards the door that led out into the hall, “that was unlocked?”

“Yes. One of Princess Camilla’s chambermaids came in to wake her – as usual – and found her. The chambermaid – Sophie – said that the door was unlocked.”

“And that was usual, too – to have the door to her room unlocked?”

Again, Birke shook his head.

“No. Sophie said that typically the princess kept her door locked – even before the attack on her mother.”

“So, then how would Sophie get into the room in the morning to wake the princess?”

“She had a key.”

“Really? I’m going to need to speak with her then.”

“She’s no longer here.”

“What? Where is she?”

“Gone. Most of the palace staff left after the second attack. They either outright quit or came up with some excuse. It’s amazing how many of them suddenly had to go visit distant relatives outside the kingdom.”

A grimace came to the witcher’s face.

“So, the bedroom door was open, and Sophie had a key? How many others in the castle had access to the princess’s room?”

“Witcher, you can rule out Sophie and all the other staff. I promise you. Because I haven’t been just sitting on my ass for the last two months. I’ve scoured this place from top to bottom. I’ve already asked all the questions that you’ve been asking. I interrogated all of the palace staff – chambermaids, stable boys, the guards, the cooks in the kitchen. All of them. This was not the work of any of them. If it was, King Travid would not have hired a witcher. These murders were the work of some type of beast. So, focus on that. I mean, that is what you’re supposed to be the expert on, right? Finding and killing monsters?”

“Well, I can’t kill it if I can’t find it,” the teen growled. “And I can’t find it if there are _zero_ clues to be had.”

He then forcefully exhaled.

“Okay. Since you’ve got such a head-start on me, how about you tell me what you think happened here?”

Birke nodded.

“I think it’s pretty simple. The monster flew-in under the cover of darkness. Landed on the balcony. The princess obviously didn’t lock her balcony doors so the beast entered, slaughtered her, and flew off.”

“And just why do you think the monster is winged?”

Birke looked at Geralt like he was an idiot.

“Because we’re on the fourth floor, witcher. It should be pretty obvious.”

Geralt just shook his head at the arrogant knight. Hell, were all knights like this, he wondered. Because this one wasn’t acting anything at all like the knights his mother used to describe in her bed-time stories, and he certainly wasn’t anything like what Geralt had imagined – and hoped – that they’d be. Well, to hell with him if he’s going to be like this, he thought.

“Sir Alyn, there are a multitude of creatures – that _don’t_ have wings - that could easily get in here. Wraiths and pestae can move through walls. Hyms live in the shadows. Hell, even foglets can turn into a mist-like, immaterial form and pass under doorways. And that doesn’t even take into account the number of monsters that could simply climb up the palace walls – like various species of arachnomorphs and vampires.”

The scowl on the captain’s face slowly disappeared to eventually be replaced with a pensive look. He then nodded.

“Alright, witcher – I stand corrected. Perhaps, you can aid this investigation after all.”

The teen nodded, but there was a mixture of confusion and suspicion on his face.

“Yeah, that’s all I’m trying to do. To stop this monster – whatever it is – from killing again.”

“As am I.”

“Well…okay, then.”

“Okay,” agreed Birke with a short nod of his head.

Geralt wasn’t sure what had just happened between the two of them, but it seemed like Birke was trying to extend an olive branch.

“Yeah. Let me just finish up on the balcony and then we can check the queen’s room.”

Geralt, as he expected, didn’t find any clues on the balcony, so he stuck his head over the railing and scanned the palace walls. He suddenly stopped and focused his eyes.

“I think I got something, Sir Alyn,” he said.

“What is it?” said the captain, coming to the balcony’s railing.

“Blood about fifteen feet down.”

Birke shook his head.

“I don’t see anything, but…if you say so. What can I do?”

“I need a rope. The longest one you can find.”

Fifteen minutes later, the witcher repelled off the fourth-floor balcony and began walking backwards down the side of the palace. He stopped at the spot in question, and, sure enough, it was a dry smear of blood on light brown stone. More importantly, it looked like it had been left there by the monster’s hand or claw or paw. And near the smear, in the mortar between two stones, he noticed four deep gouges – as if hard nails or claws had dug in, seeking a hold. Geralt nodded his head with a sense of small triumph. He finally had his first real clue – a clue that more than likely ruled out any flying beast. A winged monster would have simply flown off the balcony. He highly doubted that it would have climbed down the side of the palace. So, while the blood smear didn’t identify the monster, it at least eliminated dozens of others. And that was a start.

He slowly repelled the rest of the way down the side of the palace – carefully trying to follow the bloody prints – until, about five minutes later, his feet finally rested on the soft, grassy ground at the bottom of the castle. Birke was already there waiting on him.

Geralt told him what he’d discovered but added, “The last blood smear I found was about twenty feet up – right near that lowest balcony. So, the monster could have simply jumped down to the ground at that point, or-”

“Or, it could have re-entered the palace through those doors,” said Birke, nodding his head toward the balcony above.

“Maybe, but I checked, and I didn’t find any blood on the balcony or the doors – though, I suppose it could have been cleaned off by some diligent chambermaid not knowing that she was wiping away evidence. I’ll scan the grounds down here for more prints, and then, I guess, based on what I find, we can go from there.”

Geralt began to search the ground around the base of the castle, but almost immediately, he sighed and shook his head. It looked as if a battalion of men had crisscrossed their way across the grass. In the nearly four weeks since the princess’s death, there must have been at least a thousand footprints left on the grounds near the palace. He asked Sir Alyn about the recent weather and discovered that there had been a thunderstorm a few weeks past, as well. And while the rain, obviously, hadn’t washed the dried blood off of the palace walls, it had – along with all the foot-traffic – completely obscured whatever clues the monster may have left down below. Just to be sure, the witcher spent the next hour slowly walking around the base of the castle and then out into the gardens, but, as expected, he found no trail of blood or monster tracks.

After his investigation of the palace grounds, he and Birke conducted the same investigation of the queen’s bed chambers. Like the princess’s, it had been cleaned of blood and prints. However, outside the queen’s balcony, Geralt found the same bloody smears on the stones of the palace’s outer wall. If nothing else, the witcher had very strong evidence that the beast – whatever it was – was the perpetrator of both attacks. Before then, it had just been an assumption.

“So, what’s next?” asked Birke as the two stood on the edge of the palace gardens in the mid-afternoon sun.

“Next? The bodies. I’m gonna need to inspect the bodies.”

“Really?”

Geralt nodded.

“Well, they’re already entombed so I think we’ll need the king’s approval for that. But if you insist, then follow me.”

oOo

“Have you actually ever seen a corpse before?” asked Doctor Dermitt.

Geralt looked up from the sarcophagus and leveled a glare at the gray-haired man. Dermitt quickly raised both hands in the air.

“Hey, I didn’t mean any offense, Geralt. I know you’re a witcher and all, but…well, you look really young, and I just want to make sure you’re prepared. What we’re about to see is going to be pretty gruesome. Hell, I’ve been practicing medicine for over fifty years and…well, the funeral was closed-casket for a reason.”

The teen stared at Dermitt for a moment, and then he softened his features. For some reason, he believed the old man – that he was just concerned and not being a mean-spirited, sarcastic ass like Geralt was used to dealing with. The witcher nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve seen a few dead bodies, but, if I’m honest, I’ve never exhumed a corpse before.”

“Well, that’s alright,” said Dermitt with a warm smile. “I can probably count on one hand the number of exhumations I’ve conducted so…if anyone here will be asking a lot of questions, it’ll probably be me.”

“Yeah, right,” replied Geralt, with just a hint of a smile. He then looked down at the sarcophagus. “So, shall we?”

It was just the two of them standing inside of Princess Camilla’s dimly-lit crypt, which was located on the far south end of the palace grounds. Captain Birke had begged off – informing Geralt that he’d already seen the bodies and that he had other tasks that needed attending to. He said that they could meet-up later to discuss whatever new findings the witcher might discover from the exhumation.

Roughly thirty minutes later, Camilla’s corpse was finally out, laying on a wooden board and stripped of her clothes. Geralt lifted his hand to his nose as he looked down at what was left of the young princess. The stench was quite strong. And Dermitt hadn’t been exaggerating. She was absolutely mutilated. Her body had literally been slashed to pieces. 

“So,” said Dermitt, “I’ve never seen a witcher at work, but I hear that you lot know your way around dead bodies. I’d love to hear your expert opinion. See if we agree or not.”

Geralt glanced up at the doctor, nodded his head, and moved his eyes back to the corpse. He continued to examine the body for at least a minute before he finally spoke.

“Well, I’ll start with the obvious, first. This clearly wasn’t the work of a human. No blade did this. The wounds are definitely indicative of some type of monster’s claws. Looks to have five digits, and the claws razor-sharp. The monster also has to have incredible strength to be able to cut through her bones so easily. The claws aren’t long, though. Maybe three inches at the most. She’s also been decapitated.”

He then looked up at Dermitt.

“Did you see her in her bed after the attack?”

“I did.”

“How extensive was the blood splatter?”

Dermitt nodded at the question.

“The bed was soaked, but there wasn’t much in terms of arterial spray. My assumption was that the heart had already stopped beating before most of this mutilation had occurred.”

“Meaning that the decapitation may have come first, which could also explain why no one heard anything. Birke said that there were no screams, or at least, none that anyone heard. If she had been alive when she was getting gutted, I imagine she would have made a lot of noise.”

Geralt continued examining the body and then asked another question.

“And you didn’t find anything unusual on the body? No note left in her throat or some item in her hand. Anything like that?”

“No,” answered the doctor, shaking his head. “No special message.”

Geralt picked up the hands and inspected them closely. None of the nails were torn or chipped.

“Did you find anything under the fingernails?”

“No. No scales. No monster skin or feathers. No thread from clothing. Nothing.”

“Meaning she didn’t put up a fight, which adds support to our theory that she was not only beheaded first but that it was also done quickly. Let me ask you another question. She’s in pieces, but it looks like her pieces are all here. But what about her organs? Were any missing? I don’t particularly want to go rooting around in there if you already know the answer.”

“Her organs were all severely damaged, slashed up, but no, none of them were missing. Every one of them was accounted for.”

“And the queen’s body – was it like this one? Same type of injuries, but nothing missing?”

“Nearly identical.”

The teen stood up straight. He stared down at the corpse for several long moments, and he exhaled deeply.

“Then, this doesn’t add up,” he said looking at the doctor.

“I agree,” answered Dermitt, with a knowing look on his face. “But I’d love to hear why you think it doesn’t add up.”

“What doesn’t add up is that I can’t find a single bite mark on her body. No teeth marks, no puncture wounds from fangs. Nothing.”

Dermitt nodded. His face was very grave. “I noticed that, too.”

Geralt reached up and rubbed his hand over his jaw.

“Then, this changes everything,” said the witcher, his eyes locking onto the doctor’s. “Because that means that this monster didn’t kill because it was hungry. It wasn’t just looking for a meal. In fact, based on how mutilated the body is, it looks like it was just…angry. Add to that, the fact that, for each attack, it only killed one person. It didn’t rampage throughout the rest of the palace looking for other victims.”

Dermitt nodded very slowly. “Those are all logical conclusions. And what do you think all of that means, Mr. monster-expert?”

“It means that we’re not dealing with a run-of-the-mill nekker or drowner. We’re dealing with a very intelligent being with a very specific agenda. It purposefully targeted the queen and, then a month later, the princess.”

“Which then begs two very important questions?”

“Which are?” asked Geralt

“Why did it target them…and who’s next?”

“Yeah,” said the witcher with a sigh. “If I just knew the answer to the first, then I could maybe figure out the second.”

Geralt looked back down at the corpse for a moment and breathed in deeply.

“Then, I need your help,” he said, looking back at Dermitt. “Because, other than knowing that it’s famous for its gems and for its bridge, I know next to nothing about this kingdom…or about the royal family. So, why would this monster – or _anyone,_ for that matter – want to kill the princess and the queen?”

“Why do we ever murder?” asked Dermitt. “For power, money…out of anger or revenge.”

“Okay” said Geralt with a nod. “So, then, how do any of those things fit in with what we’ve got here?”

“With the princess? I’m not sure. But with Queen Elize? I can probably count on one hand the number of people who truly mourned her death. In fact, there were probably thousands of Dothanites who, given the chance, would have liked to have killed her themselves. If I’m honest - me, included.”

Dermitt clearly caught the look on Geralt’s face.

“I know, I know. Shocking for an old man – especially the royal physician – to say. ‘Do no harm,’ right? Hell, I wouldn’t have really killed her, but…” He then sighed. “Look, since you say you don’t know the ins-and-outs of Dothan society, then I need to back up a bit.”

“Alright.”

“You’ve met our king, right?”

Geralt nodded.

“Well, he wasn’t always like he is now – a drunken fool. Hell, I should know. I delivered him and watched him grow up his entire life. Now, he was never a bright kid and always a bit impetuous. Didn’t always think about the consequences of his actions before jumping in, but his parents – may the gods bless their souls – raised him right. King Frankel and Queen Eunice were good people. Tried their best to teach him to live by ‘The Good Book’. But, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to Travid was his parents arranging his marriage to Oleyna.”

“So, Elize wasn’t his first wife?”

“No, and I’ll get to her in a second. Now, Queen Oleyna was loved by - well, hell - by everyone. She was warm and compassionate. One of the gentlest souls you could ever meet. But also incredibly wise and fair. If King Travid ever made a good decision – personal or political - you can bet it was due to Oleyna’s influence.”

“So, what happened to her?”

“Poisoned – about five or six years ago. And I did everything I knew to do to combat it. Even had Rojet – Travid’s mage advisor – help out. We tried some experimental elixirs that…” The old doctor broke eye contact and shook his head. “Now, I wish that we would have just let her die. Because she hung on – for several years – but she was never the same. The poison destroyed her body, confining her to bed. But even worse was what it did to her mind. Half the time she was just in a comatose state. When she was awake, she’d either just stare at the ceiling, or…curse and scream like a banshee. She was the sweetest woman I ever met. Never heard her say a harsh word in her life. But those last couple of years, she would curse worse than a Crinfrid Reaver.”

At that point, Dermitt stopped talking and wiped his eyes. 

“Sounds like hell,” Geralt said softly, “but what’s any of that got to do with Queen Elize?”

“Well, there’s always been speculation that it was Elize that poisoned her. Now, there was never any proof, and it’s not the type of thing that people would ever say out loud, but…”

“Why would people suspect Elize?”

“Well, she had opportunity. Access to the palace and to the queen, but, it’s more than that. She was never one to hide her ambition. I think she always had her eye on being the queen. And after Oleyna was poisoned, she seemed to be attached to Travid’s hip. And the two were married just months after Oleyna finally passed away. Just long enough where it wouldn’t look too unseemly. Though, it was still distasteful…to pretty much everyone. And Travid – he’s never been the same ever since Oleyna was poisoned and Elize got her claws into him. With Oleyna out of the picture, he just…he just lost his moral compass.”

“You said that Elize had access to the palace and to the queen. How so? She couldn’t have been just a chambermaid, right? I mean, I don’t know much about how royalty works, but kings don’t just marry commoners, do they?”

Dermitt’s eyes bore into Geralt’s and he nodded.

“That’s right – I forget you’re new to our twisted, little kingdom.”

“What?”

“Elize had full access to the palace because she was Travid’s sister-in-law. She was married to the king’s younger brother.”

“Whoa,” whispered Geralt. “So, then, how did the king’s brother die?”

Dermitt narrowed his eyes. “He didn’t. He’s still alive. Living right here in Dothan.”

“You mean to tell me…”

“Yep,” said the doctor. “King Travid stole his brother’s wife.”

Suddenly – and for the second time that day – Brother Kennit’s warning popped into Geralt’s mind.

“There’s a darkness – a curse – hanging over this city,” the witcher whispered.

Dermitt nodded his head as the shadows from the flickering torches danced across his face. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Kaer Morhen – 1184_

Geralt glared at his enemy.

“Draw your sword, you piece of filth,” he snarled. 

After a pause, he continued, “Oh, who am I, you ask? I am Sir Geralt of Rivia, and I am here to end your villainy.”

With that, he lunged at his foe and struck a vicious blow.

“Ha! Is that all you’ve got?” Geralt cried out, and he attacked again.

He was just about to move in for the kill when Marmalade suddenly arched up and hissed – breaking Geralt’s concentration.

“Your footwork’s for shit…sir knight,” came a gruff voice a moment later.

Geralt – with a long, wooden stick in his hand – quickly spun around to see a gray-haired witcher with a long mustache and soul-patch standing in the doorway of the stables. He immediately brought the stick down to his side, swallowed hard, and quickly nodded his head.

“This is what Yastic has you doing down here, boy – just playin’ the fool?”

“No…no, Master Vesemir. I…I promise I’m not…playing the fool,” stammered the boy. Though this was the first time that Geralt had actually ever spoken to the velpen’s sword instructor, he knew the witcher by sight.

“I’ve finished my chores for the day. I was…I was just practicing.”

“Relax, kid, you’re not in trouble – at least not with me. If Yastic wants to tan your hide, that’s up to him.”

Yastic was the bitter old man who acted as the groundskeeper for Kaer Morhen. He had gone through the Trial of Grasses as a boy, and while the experiment, obviously, had not killed him, his body had not adapted well to the mutations. They’d left him with weakened bones and a curved spine, and, most damaging, they’d rendered him half-blind. He could distinguish between light and dark and he could see shapes, but that was the extent of his vision. With his family dead and with no chance of ever being a witcher on the Path, Yastic had stayed at Kaer Morhen and had, eventually, begun taking care of the horses’ stables, the chicken coops, the vegetable garden just outside of the fortress walls, and whatever else needed maintenance.

For the past two years, Geralt’s life had fallen into a predictable – and frustrating – routine. He woke before sunrise every morning and spent the next couple of hours undergoing all kinds of tortuous physical activity. That was followed – until lunch time - by introductory instruction in alchemy, botany, zoology, mathematics, the Elder Speech, and other topics necessary in becoming a professional witcher. None of those disciplines particularly interested the little boy, but he still paid enough attention that he could always answer Master Kalen’s questions – for he had learned what would happen if the master witcher ever thought he was giving half-assed effort. But what frustrated Geralt most was that the one discipline that truly interested him was the one he was not allowed to join. The fodder spent their afternoons in sword training – or, at least, everyone except Geralt. Master Barin – who was the sword instructor for the fodder – still refused to allow Geralt to start with his sword training due to his small size. Therefore, his afternoons were filled with nothing but helping Yastic around the grounds until it was time for the evening chores.

Geralt noticed that Vesemir had narrowed his eyes and was closely scrutinizing his face so he broke eye-contact, lowered his head and turned it slightly to the left, hoping that the master witcher wouldn’t notice the bruising and slight swelling that surrounded his eye. He’d discovered the hard way that reporting to the cadre that he was beaten only made matters worse. It was just better to pretend it didn’t happen. And, heck, it wasn’t like he was the only fodder walking around with a blackened eye. Bruises, blood, and broken bones weren’t uncommon at the witcher school. Almost all the boys there were covered in scrapes and contusions.

He kept glancing up, waiting for Vesemir to speak, and finally the witcher broke the silence.

“I’ll be damned,” the old man whispered, though it was loud enough that Geralt was still able to discern his words. “Laramir.”

The lad furrowed his brows because he didn’t know anyone named Laramir at Kaer Morhen, but Vesemir didn’t bother to explain any further. He just continued staring at the boy, which unnerved Geralt greatly. If he had learned anything in his time at the witcher school, it was that it was best to stay unnoticed. Every time that he’d ever caught the eye of Kalen, Steej, or anyone – for that matter – it had never gone well for him. Interacting with virtually anyone at the keep usually ended in pain and humiliation. He just wanted to be left alone, and he hoped Master Vesemir would leave quickly.

Eventually, the witcher broke his gaze at the boy and glanced around the barn.

“Rumor has it you sleep here in these stables. That true?”

Geralt gave a small nod.

“Yes, Master Vesemir.”

“You still piss the bed?”

The little boy’s face suddenly flushed, and he looked down to the ground.  
  


“No…no, Master Vesemir,” he answered in a quiet voice.

“No? But you haven’t lost the nickname, have you?”

Most of the fodder who had been present at Kaer Morhen for the origin of Geralt’s moniker had died in the Trials, but enough had survived that his nickname endured. And even if all the fodder had died, it wouldn’t have mattered. Master Kalen would have perpetuated its use. He still called Geralt ‘Piss Boy’ two years later.

Geralt clenched his jaws and looked up at the old man.

“No, Master Vesemir.”

“That why you stay here and not in the barracks with the rest of the fodder?”

Geralt shrugged, but he then remembered his manners.

“I don’t know, Master Vesemir.”  
  


The witcher snorted softly.

“The hell you don’t.”

Geralt wasn’t sure if the master witcher expected a reply or not. But, since he hadn’t been asked a direct question, he decided to just stay silent. Life was easier the less he said.

“Does Yastic know you’ve been skipping out on your chores for the last week?”

“What? No – but I haven’t, Master Vesemir!”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. I’ve seen you every afternoon spying on my class. Did you think I wouldn’t notice you – hiding in the shadows?”

Geralt quickly lowered his head.

“I…I didn’t know you saw me. I just – I just wanted to watch.”

He looked up into the witcher’s eyes.

“But I haven’t been neglecting my chores. I get them all done – every day. I swear! I do everything that Mister Yastic tells me to do. I just…do it all real fast.”

“So that you can spend the rest of your afternoons sneaking around, eavesdropping on people?”

“No, Master Vesemir,” the little boy said, shaking his head. “That’s not…I want to learn how to fight…how to use a sword. All the other fodder get to learn.”

“You’d best take that up with Master Barin, then.”

“I…I did. He said that I was still too little,” replied Geralt, his eyes falling to the ground.

“So, you decided to skulk around and spy on my class instead?”

Geralt kept his eyes down and nodded his head. “Yes, Master Vesemir.”

“So, you want to be a witcher that badly, do ya?”

Geralt hesitated for a second – his mind quickly deciding how he should answer - before giving a short nod.

“Yes, Master Vesemir.”

After a long silence, when the witcher hadn’t said anything else, the boy lifted his head and looked at the old man, who was staring straight at the boy with narrowed eyes.

“Not sure you’re being entirely truthful, but so be it. Every man’s got the right to keep some secrets to himself. But answer me this - even if I told you to stop spying on my class, you’d still play around with your little stick on your own, wouldn’t you?”

Geralt hesitated – quickly trying to figure out which answer the witcher wanted to hear.

“Never mind,” said Vesemir. “No need to answer me, boy. I know you would.”

Eventually, the gray-haired witcher exhaled softly and gave a little nod of his head.

“It’s damn-near impossible to break bad habits, and Barin – when he finally does take you under his tutelage – is gonna make your life a living hell, as is. Don’t wanna make things worse. So, show me what you learned this past week.”

“Excuse me, Master Vesemir?”

“Show me how you hold your weapon, boy,” he said impatiently.

Geralt looked at the witcher for a moment and quickly grasped his stick in both hands. He held it in front of his body, doing his best to mimic the stance of Vesemir’s students.

“Wrong,” barked the sword instructor. “All wrong. You’d be dead within a second. For the love of Freya, boy. You may have been watching my classes this week, but you obviously weren’t paying attention.”

Geralt lowered his eyes to the barn floor as his shoulders slumped.

“Here, let me show you the right way.”

The little boy looked up, shocked to see the witcher walking in his direction. Vesemir stepped up close, re-positioned Geralt’s hands on the stick, and then he lightly kicked the insteps of the boy’s feet. Geralt could smell a sharp – but not unpleasant odor – on the witcher’s breath.

“Widen your stance. It’s too narrow. A light breeze could knock you over,” instructed Vesemir. “And bend your knees more. And raise your hands higher.”

The old man then took a step back.

“There. That’s…adequate,” he said with a small nod. “Remember this, Laramir…if you want to live. There’s only two ways to use your sword – the witcher way…or the dead way.”

Geralt nodded.

“Yes, Master Vesemir.”

The witcher gave a slight nod back towards Geralt and began to turn away.

“It’s…it’s ‘Geralt,’ Master Vesemir.”

The old man immediately stopped and slowly turned around.

“Come again, boy?”

Geralt swallowed and lowered his eyes, instantly regretting that he’d corrected the witcher. What the hell had he been thinking?

“M-my name is Geralt, Master Vesemir. You…you called me ‘Laramir,’” he whispered.

The witcher reached up, smoothed down the ends of his mustache with his fingertips and breathed in deeply.

“Did I now?”

“Y-yes, Master Vesemir.”

Geralt lifted his eyes to see the old man peering closely at him again.

“Remember what I told you…boy. And stay away from my training area. Don’t let me catch you spying on me again.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

oOo

_Day 1 – Dothan; February 1194_

Geralt grabbed his saddlebags off of the floor and moved to his bed. He’d been shown to his private bedchambers in the palace earlier that afternoon, but he’d not had time to unpack since he’d wanted to immediately head to the princess’s room to begin his investigation. He and Doctor Dermitt had completed their exhumations in the royal crypt a short while ago, and he was now back in his quarters with about an hour to kill before dinner – a dinner where he would update Travid on his afternoon’s discoveries.

He opened his saddlebags as he sat down on the bed, and that’s when he immediately stopped what he was doing. He stood back up and then slowly pressed his hand down onto the soft mattress. 

“Wow,” he whispered. “I might actually try sleeping tonight.”

Due to his recurring nightmares, the truth was that he rarely slept, preferring meditation instead.

The teen carefully dumped the contents of his saddlebags onto the bedcovers and then placed his spare set of boots on the floor by the wall. A tome caught his eye next, and he furrowed his brows in confusion because he didn’t immediately recall owning a book. The only text that he owned was his bestiary, but he’d left that back at Kaer Morhen. And then he remembered his encounter with the Lebiodan priest that morning. He grabbed the tome and noticed the words, ‘The Good Book,’ on the spine. He flipped it in his hands and opened it to a random page.

“Never pet a burning dog,” he read out loud, and he furrowed his brows again. This time even deeper than before. “He who goes to bed with an itchy butt wakes up with a stinky finger.”

He turned the book over to look at the spine again.

“This _can’t_ be serious? _This_ is the great wisdom that’s going to lead me to enlightenment?”

The witcher shook his head, shut the book and tossed it onto the bedside table. When he turned his head back towards the mattress, his eyes landed on a small, wooden figurine, and he automatically frowned. He picked up the figurine and held it tenderly in his hand. He stood there looking at the miniature troll for quite some time. Eventually, he sighed and placed it gently on top of the book, and it was just then that he heard a knock on the bedchamber’s door. He headed to the door, opened it, and suddenly his breath caught in his throat.

“Good evening, sir,” said a woman with a curtsey.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties and was short – maybe just a couple of inches above five feet – with long, strawberry blonde hair, sea-foam green eyes, and just the tiniest sprinkling of light freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones, and Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off of her. In the three months since leaving Kaer Morhen, he’d spoken to women on several occasions, and he’d even seen one or two who were probably more attractive than the one standing in front of him – the painting of Princess Camilla being one example. But none of that had prepared him for this. He was captivated. And, by the gods, he thought, what was that scent? It had to be something that she was wearing, right? A perfume or her soap. It couldn’t be just coming from her naturally, could it?

“I…yes,” he started and then swallowed. “I mean…it is – a good evening, that is.”

He felt the blood rushing to his face and quickly rolled his eyes.

_‘Smooth, man,’_ he silently chastised himself _. ‘Real smooth.’_

When he looked back at the woman, she was smiling widely. It was a smile that lit up her face, and Geralt suddenly couldn’t stop staring again. And then he noticed that she was staring back and that the smile wasn’t leaving her face. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a bit of mischief in her eyes, as if she knew exactly what was going on and was just going to see how long she could keep things awkward for him. Eventually, he saw what he thought was a look of compassion cross her face, and she spoke.

“My name is Delyla, sir. And you are the witcher Geralt, correct?”

“Umm, yes…I’m Geralt. It’s…nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, sir,” she said with another curtsy. “I will be one of your chambermaids and attendants during your stay at the palace. King Travid has sent me for you. He – well, he _assured_ me that you’d want to bathe and change your attire before dinner. Was he mistaken, sir?”

The teen quickly glanced down at his filthy clothes, and the blood rushed to his face again.

“I…well, I…I don’t have…” He then dropped his eyes from hers. “These are the only clothes I’ve got.”

The radiant smile returned to her face.

“Oh, no worries, sir. We are prepared for _just_ these occasions.” She leaned in and whispered, “Please don’t be embarrassed, sir. You’re not the first, and we’ll have you dressed to the nines in no time.”

Geralt just swallowed and nodded his head.

“Fantastic, sir,” she said with another winning smile. “Please follow me to the bathing room.”

The bathing room was a short stroll down the hall, and, as he walked next to the woman, he frantically tried to think of anything witty or charming to say, but his mind was a complete blank.

“So, uh, Delyla…are you from here? I mean, originally?” 

He figuratively rolled his eyes again, thinking, _‘Is that the best you can do?’_

“Oh, no, sir. I’m from Temeria originally.”

“Oh, really? Temeria?” Even though, over the years, he’d read a bit about the kingdom to the west, he suddenly couldn’t remember a single detail about it. “Well, uh, do you have family back there?” he asked instead.

The chambermaid suddenly stopped and looked up at him.

“No, sir. My parents died when I was young so my older brother raised me, but…well, he passed on, as well. So, no…no family. That’s why I moved here – to start fresh.”

Geralt winced.

_‘Nice job, dumbass,”_ thought the teen. _‘You’re not supposed to make her sad. Why don’t you just kick her dog while you’re at it?’_

“I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know. But I understand. I don’t have a family either.”

A small, sad smile came to her face.

“Well, aren’t we just a pair, then?”

She then motioned with her hand to his right.

“Here we are, sir. The bathing room, and we shouldn’t tarry. We wouldn’t want the water to cool. I got it nice and hot for you.”

Geralt walked into a medium sized room with a large, wooden tub on the right side. Steam was rising from the water within. On the other side of the room was a hearth with an enormous, cast-iron pot above the flames. To the left of that was a large pyramid of firewood. A bench was situated along the side wall, and there was a stack of neatly folded clothes on top of it. A full-length mirror was in the near corner, and along the back wall were several shelves containing numerous colored bottles.

“What scented soap would you like me to add, sir?”

“I…uh, I don’t know. What kind do you use?”

“I like several, but I’m partial to lilac.” 

“Let’s try that, then.”

“Of course, sir,” she said with a small smile. She grabbed a purple-colored bottle off of the back shelf and poured some of its contents into the tub. After putting the bottle back on the shelf, she swirled her hand in the water, causing suds to form on top.

“Now, please hurry and undress, sir. I’d hate for the water to get too cool. Once you’re in, I’ll shave you and wash your back.”

Geralt didn’t know what to do or say. He wanted to ask, ‘You want me to get naked…with you in here?’ But he didn’t. He already felt like an ignorant rube so he was just going to do what she told him. Who knows, he thought, maybe in royal palaces getting naked in front of attendants was commonplace, so he quickly began to undress. Just as he was dropping his drawers, he looked up and saw Delyla on the other side of the room near the cast-iron pot. Since her back was turned, he hurried over to the tub, stepped into it, and slowly sat down.

“Ahhhhh.” The sound involuntarily escaped from his throat.

Delyla turned around, saw him neck-deep in the tub with his eyes half-closed, and smiled.

“When was your last bath?” she asked.

“My last _warm_ one? I don’t know. Maybe…eleven years ago.”

The words had just tumbled out of him. He would have never admitted to such a thing in normal circumstances, and certainly not to a woman like Delyla, but he was in such a state of absolute bliss at the moment that his natural insecurity and wariness had disappeared.

“Wow, no wonder you smelled so – Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Geralt opened his eyes fully and looked at the woman across the room. She was holding her hand up to her mouth.

_‘Good,’_ he thought with an inward smile. _‘It’s about time you feel as embarrassed as me.’_

“It’s alright, Delyla” he said instead. “It’s the truth. I know I stink, and…can you please stop calling me ‘sir.’ It just seems a little awkward – given that, well, you’ve gotta be older than me.”

Suddenly, he saw a sad look cross her face.

“Are you…are you saying I look old?”

_‘What?’_ he thought. _‘That’s not what I meant at all!’_

He suddenly stood up in the tub.

“No, no! I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. I didn’t -”

Suddenly, she started laughing.

“I’m just teasing with you, silly. And sit back down, please. You’re making me blush.”

Geralt looked down, saw the soapy water running off his completely naked body, and quickly sat back down in the suds.

_‘Bloody hell,’_ he thought. _‘She’s gotta think you’re nothing but a stupid kid.’_

He watched her stroll to the shelves on the back wall – giggling to herself the entire time. She grabbed something from the shelves, picked up a small stool, and came over to the tub, sitting right behind Geralt.

“I’m not sure that you need it, but I’m going to shave you now, okay? So, just lean your head back and rest it on my lap.”

He was too embarrassed to say anything so he just did as he was told.

“Well, look at that. You _do_ have some whiskers – right there on your chin.”

The teen was just about to say something in response when he felt her hands on his face.

“Oh, my,” she said breathlessly.

“What is it?”

“You didn’t feel that?”

“Your hands on my face? Yeah.”

“No. It was like…a shock.”

Geralt shook his head.

“No, I didn’t, but I’m sorry if it hurt you.”

“No, no, it didn’t. It was more like a tingle. It felt rather…pleasant, in fact.”

“Oh, well…good, then.”

“Yes, yes, well, let me, uh, get back to your whiskers.”

She immediately began to slowly and gently rub some kind of cream onto his neck and cheeks – humming softly the entire time - and he closed his eyes at the sensation. He totally agreed with her. It was a very pleasant feeling. Just as it was true that he hadn’t taken a warm bath in over a decade, he figured that it had to also be that long since he’d felt human contact. Well, gentle human contact, that is. And, then, before he knew it, and without even trying, he got hard down below. He couldn’t help himself – not with her hands on his skin and her scent exploding all around him. But, surprisingly, he didn’t care. Not with the soapy, sudsy water hiding his erection. So, he just sat back and enjoyed the experience. Who knew if he’d ever experience something like it again?

He stared up and into her face as she slowly and expertly scraped the shaving cream from his skin.

At one point, she said, “You know, you’re the first witcher that I’ve ever met, but I’ve heard rumors and stories, of course. I mean, everyone has, right? Anyway, I heard that you wear some type of magical medallion. Is that it?

Geralt saw her eyes drift down to his chest.

“No, my medallion is in my trousers’ pocket.”

“Oh, why do you carry it there? Is that normal?”

“No, it’s not. I…maybe I should wear it. I just, well, it’s just complicated. That’s all.”

“Okay. Well, I like the one around your neck, too. It’s simple but nice.”

Geralt thought about the thin leather strip around his neck and the small, wooden pendant that hung from it. 

_‘Simple but nice,’_ he thought to himself. _‘Yeah, that’s a pretty accurate description of my friend.’_

“Thanks,” he said instead.

A minute later, she finished with the shaving. She put the razor away, looked down into the witcher’s eyes, and said, “Would you like for me to wash your back next?”

“Yeah,” he said, giving the smallest nod of his head. “That would be great.”

He had never felt so relaxed, and he was so in the moment that he forgot all about what was on his back. So, he simply sat up and leaned slightly forward.

“Oh, my gods, Geralt! What – your back – how – what happened?” she stammered out.

The teen grimaced. He’d never actually seen his back before – since he’d never owned a mirror at Kaer Morhen - but he knew it couldn’t look pretty. There were at least a half-a-dozen, long scars crisscrossing his skin. All the good feelings that had been present a moment before suddenly evaporated to be replaced by some fairly haunting memories.

“It’s no big deal,” he said lowly.

“No big deal? You’ve got to be kidding! And they look like old scars, too. At least three or four years old. You had to have been a kid when this happened.”

He turned his head and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Honestly, it’s no big deal. Like you said, it happened a long time ago. It was just part of some training, that’s all.”

“Training?” she asked incredulously. “What the hell were they trying to teach you with this?”

Geralt really wanted her to drop it. 

“I really can’t say. It’s part of our code,” he lied. “Let’s just call it a ‘learning lesson’ and leave it at that, okay?”

She agreed, but, unfortunately, the scars on his back seemed to dampen the mood. While she washed his back and, then, his hair, she continued with some playful banter, but Geralt could tell it was forced. He was still appreciative of her efforts, though.

Ten minutes later, the bath was over and he toweled himself dry. He found some underpants in the stack of clothes on the bench, put them on, and then he found the shirt.

“Holy damn,” he whispered as he put the shirt on. “What is this made of?”

Delyla smiled.

“That’s silk. Nice, huh?”

The teen nodded.

“Very. The bed in my room. The bath…now this shirt. I think I could get used to palace living.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Think the king has any openings for a knight in his court?” he joked.

Suddenly, the look on her face changed. The smile and mischief in her eyes were completely gone.

“I know we just met, Geralt, but I can already tell that you’re _way_ too nice for this place. Go find some other court to join. I’m serious.”

“Why do you say that? Because of the monster attacks?”

Suddenly, they heard a chime sounding three times, and her eyes widened slightly.

“Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes,” she said. “We need to hurry. You do _not_ want to keep a king waiting.”

Geralt quickly finished putting on the shirt, trousers, and leather shoes, but when he got to the rest of the clothes on the bench, he was confused. He held up the other articles of clothing and looked at Delyla.

“I don’t…”

She smiled.

“The doublet goes on first,” she said, pointing to the article of clothing in his right hand. “And then the jerkin.”

She helped him finish getting dressed and then handed him his wolf-head medallion.

“Don’t forget this,” she said.

“Right. Thanks,” said the teen as he put it in his pocket.

“What about my clothes?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll wash them tonight and have them back to you by the morning. Now, let’s go.”

And then they were out the door, heading down the hall.

“You look great, and, well, you smell _a lot_ better. How do you feel?” she asked.

The teen glanced at her.

“Honestly, a bit nervous. I’ve never been to a formal dinner. I have no idea what to say or do. I mean, I know to address King Travid as ‘Your Majesty,’ but I have no idea what to call anyone else.”

“No problem. Prince Roope will be there. You address him as ‘Your Highness.’”

“Who do I address as ‘Your Grace?’”

Delyla laughed.

“No one. That’s for dukes and duchesses.”

“See what I mean? This is going to be a disaster.”

“No, it’s not, Geralt. If it was a banquet or formal ball, then, yes, maybe. But, tonight, it’s going to be very informal – in the small dining room. Just you, the king, the prince, and Rojet – the court mage. I think that’s it.”

Geralt motioned a hand towards his ensemble.

“This is informal?”

“Actually, yes. And, anyway, I’ll be in there, helping serve. If you need anything, just catch my eye, okay?”

By then, the two of them were just down the hall from the small dining room – a dining room with two palace guards on either side of the doors.

“Okay, there is it,” she said. “Just go on in. I need to head to the kitchen.”

She was just about to turn when Geralt stopped her.

“Wait, Delyla…I want…I just want to say thanks…for everything. I mean it. You’ve been great.”

That beaming smile of hers crossed her lips and hit him right in the heart.

“That’s what I’m here for. Talk to you later.”

Geralt watched her as she walked away. _‘I hope so,’_ he thought. _‘I really hope so.’_

oOo  
  


_‘If this is the small, informal dining room,’_ thought Geralt, _‘then I can’t imagine what the big one looks like.’_

He was sitting at one end of a table that could have easily accommodated twenty people. To his left was Rojet – Travid’s mage-advisor. He was a man of indeterminate age. He looked to be anywhere from thirty to fifty, but Geralt also knew that, being a wielder of magic, he could also easily alter his appearance - so there was no telling his exact age. The sorcerer had light brown skin – as if he was tanned – and long, black hair that fell down to his shoulders, and he sported a finely-trimmed goatee. 

To the witcher’s right, at the head of the table, was the king, and across from him was Prince Roope, the very same prince that he’d seen that morning at the Lebiodan temple. It was hard to believe that he’d seen the prince just that morning. The day had been so full that it seemed like the episode at the temple had happened a week ago. While Rojet’s face was completely unreadable, the prince’s face was not. He was clearly not pleased to be in attendance. Or, who knows – thought the witcher - maybe, that’s just his normal look.

Geralt quickly scanned his surroundings. On the far side of the room was an enormous, lit fireplace, and above it was a large painting of some past Dothan king. Or, at least that was what the teen assumed since the man in the painting strongly resembled Prince Roope. On either side of the fire place stood two palace guards – though, Captain Birke was nowhere to be seen, which surprised the witcher. In the far corner of the hall, was a stringed-quartet playing some soft music that he’d never heard before. There were various suits of armor situated along the sides of the dining hall. Decorative swords, axes, and lances – along with a few other paintings - adorned the walls; and hanging from the ceiling – one at each end of the room – was the banner of House Dothan. The banner was separated into four identically-sized squares and clearly displayed what the small kingdom was best known for. The top, left and the bottom, right fields sported a large bridge in bright blue stitching on a white background. The opposite squares consisted of a single anisetz gem in silver stitching on a bright blue background. It was the same banner that he’d seen flying all over the palace and the city earlier in the day. The house sigil was prominently displayed on the expensive-looking plate that was on the table before him and also etched into the overwhelming number of eating utensils on either side of the plate. Geralt swallowed as he counted at least four different spoons alone, all in various shapes and sizes. 

_‘Who needs so many spoons?’_ he asked himself.

“We can discuss your findings after dinner,” the king announced, bringing Geralt out of his musings. “There’s no need to ruin a good meal with such an unpalatable topic of conversation.”

That pronouncement caused Prince Roope to sigh.

“Now, now, Roope,” chided Travid with a smile. “I know you like to view yourself as an important man – always busy, doing indispensable work for the kingdom – but you can spare an hour or two for your father.”

Then, Geralt noticed that the king’s face changed just a bit.

“And, as your king, I demand it.”

Though Travid’s smile had remained, his eyes had hardened ever so slightly.

Roope smiled back, but there was no warmth in it.

“Of course, _Your Majesty_.”

The group was relieved of the awkward moment by the arrival of the food. And, _‘For the love of Lebioda,’_ thought the witcher, _‘what incredible food it was.’_

The teen was discovering that the Anisberg palace was as different to Kaer Morhen in about every way possible. The royal palace was an explosion of pleasurable sensations – the soft beds and silk shirts, the warm baths, the amazing scents, the soothing sounds of the stringed-quartet playing in the far corner, the vibrant colors of all the clothes and banners, and – now – the indescribable tastes. Geralt could honestly say that he didn’t even know what all the flavors were, but he was savoring every one. If this was how they ate every meal, no wonder the king was fat, thought the witcher. At Kaer Morhen, the colors ran from drab to muddy – with almost everything there being a dull shade of brown, black, or gray. And the food? Well, there were just two types – bland and bitter. Everything at Kaer Morhen – including the grub - was utilitarian, designed for a sole purpose – to make witchers. The cadre considered anything and everything else to be superfluous. So, there was no need, for example, for seasoning. For food wasn’t meant to taste good. It was meant to simply energize the body so that the body could then go through training. 

Luckily, Geralt was able to enjoy the meal even more thanks to Delyla, who, after putting down a dish in front of the teen, would discreetly tap her finger next to whichever fork or spoon was needed for the occasion. It put him at ease and saved him from embarrassment. He’d have to thank her later, he thought.

For the first half-hour of the dinner, there was mostly just inconsequential, small-talk – discussions of various rumors about members of the royal courts of other kingdoms, discourse about far-off wars in the south of the Continent, and debate over which suitor a Mr. Klopsteck – the rich, half-gnomish owner of Klopsteck Jewelers – would choose for his not-so-comely daughter. They were all discussions that the teen had absolutely nothing in which to add, so he just kept his mouth shut and enjoyed the food.

But, then, after a lull in the conversation, King Travid pushed his empty plate away from himself, grabbed his goblet of wine, and leveled his gaze at Geralt.

“So, witcher, what do you think about our little kingdom so far?”

Geralt looked up from his second helping of pork tenderloin and swallowed hard when he noticed all eyes were on him. But that wasn’t all that he’d noticed. He’d also easily picked up on the king slightly slurring his words. The teen grabbed the wine glass in front of him and took a small sip to give him a moment to think.

“It’s, uh, very clean,” he finally said, saying the first thing that came to mind.

The king laughed.

“That it is, my boy. That it is. But is that all? No other thoughts?”

“Well…Your Majesty, as you know, I was quite busy this afternoon – on your behalf.”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that shortly, but I’d like to hear a witcher’s thoughts about our fair city.”

“Okay, well – since you asked - this morning, while walking around, I did become curious about a couple of things?”  
  


“Oh, do tell? This should be interesting. Just what could intrigue a witcher?”

“Well, I understand basic economics. I mean, as a witcher, we have to know how money works. But I’m just curious why your kingdom became so wealthy? That is – specifically, why anisetz is so valuable?”

“Then, witcher, you clearly _don’t_ understand basic economics after all, not if you don’t understand that,” said Prince Roope from across the table. “It’s a _simple_ concept called ‘supply and demand.’ The people of this Continent ‘demand’ anisetz gems, and since we control – more or less - the entire supply, then we can charge very high prices. In fact, as long as the customers are willing to pay, then we can keep raising the price higher and higher.”

There was a definite tone of condescension in the prince’s voice that made the teen want to punch the man in the face, but he held his tongue.

“No…Your Highness, I understand that. That’s not what I was trying to say.”

“Then, you need to articulate your thoughts more clearly, witcher,” said Roope.

_‘Yeah,’_ thought Geralt. _‘I definitely want to punch him now.’_

“My apologies, Your _Highness_ ,” he said instead. He then turned to face the king. “What I’m curious about is why anisetz is in such high-demand in the first place. Because it seems to me that it just doesn’t have any practical use. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s not used to make anything, is it? I mean, other than jewelry. So, it’s not like, say, meteorite steel that a blacksmith can turn into a sword or…dimertium that can be crafted into various tools to combat magic. It’s basically just a shiny rock that people like to look at, and I…I just don’t see the point.”

“Well,” said the king with a laugh, “then, it’s lucky for us that the rest of the world doesn’t see it your way, or we’d all be paupers.” 

The teen nodded.

“Yeah, you would…and not just you, but pretty much the whole city, right? Because, as I was walking around this morning, I noticed that most of the businesses were directly or indirectly involved with the anisetz industry. And those that aren’t - like the taverns, the haberdasheries, the butchers, and the like – are all dependent upon the patronage of the mine workers. So, if the mines go dry…and the workers no longer have any work, then the whole city collapses, right?”

“Ha!” said the king, “Now, you sound just like Roope here.”

“It is a legitimate question, _Your Majesty_ ,” said Roope through clenched teeth.

“Diversifyyyy! Expaaand!” said Travid, laughing. “That’s all I hear from the prince. Well, that and ‘The sky is falling!’”

Suddenly, the table shook as Roope slammed his fist down on top of it.

“I will not be mocked,” he growled. “Especially when it’s _your_ profligacy that will be the ruin of this kingdom.”

Travid took a big gulp of wine and calmly looked at his son. He seemed to be unfazed by his son’s words or anger.

“Please, boy. We have enough anisetz reserves that, even if the mines dried up today, we could still flourish for a lifetime.”

“Yours…and, perhaps, mine,” stated Roope, “but not my children’s or any beyond that. Or, do you not care about your own grandchildren? Do you not care about the future of this kingdom?”

The prince slowly stood up.

“You know what – don’t bother. I already know the answer to that question.”

And with that, he turned and strode out of the dining hall. Geralt glanced at the king, Rojet, and then at the stringed-quartet in the corner. They were no longer playing their instruments and were staring a bit wide-eyed at the table.

“You are dismissed,” Rojet said to the musicians, who quickly bowed to the king and exited the room.

“I swear,” said the king after downing the contents of his goblet, “that boy is sooo hot-headed. I don’t know wherrre he gets it from. Certainly not from me or his mother – may the gods bless her soul.”

It sounded like the king’s slurring was getting worse.

“Your Majesty,” said Rojet in his calm baritone. “I know that we still have not been served dessert, but, perhaps, now, would be a good time for the witcher to inform us of this afternoon’s investigation before, well, we run out of wine.” 

“Ha! Indeed, good man. Indeed. And that, Rojet, is why I have you as my advisor. You give much better counsel than my son.”

He then turned toward Geralt.

“So, what didja learn, my boy?”

Geralt took the next ten minutes giving the two men an abridged version of his afternoon.

“So, cut to the chase, whisher, what are we dealin’ with?” asked Travid.

Geralt sighed.

“Right now, I just don’t know for certain because the clues don’t add up.”

“What is your best educated guess?” queried Rojet.

“Many of the clues point to some species of vampire – an ekimmara or katakan or, maybe, even a bruxa. It could also be a lycanthrope – a werewolf – or some variation of it, but…”

“Yes, go on, witcher,” prompted the mage.

“The lack of fang or bite marks is counter-indicative to those monsters. So, I just don’t know. It might be something that I’ve never studied before. That’s not uncommon. Bestiaries are constantly being updated as new monsters are discovered. But what I think is clear is that these attacks weren’t random.”

“Not random?” asked the king. “You mean this thing is specifically targeting the royal family!?”

That news had suddenly and miraculously sobered the king up.

“I think so, Your Majesty. So, the question becomes – why? Who would gain from these attacks?”

The king slammed the table with his fist – just as his son had done earlier.

“I’ll tell you who – Rivia and Lyria!”

Travid then looked at Rojet.

“I knew it!” he shouted before he turned back to Geralt. “I know who’s behind it – either Beauregard or Hintz.”

Geralt didn’t know who the king was talking about, and the look on his face must have shown it.

“Ambassador Beauregard of Lyria and Ambassador Hintz of Rivia! One of them bastards is behind this, I guarantee it. They want to de-stabilize the court. Throw us into chaos! A coup – that’s what they want! A coup, I tell you!”

Travid – whose face was now red and covered with sweat - immediately grabbed the wine carafe, filled his goblet to the top, and quickly downed it all in one go. As soon as he was done, he filled it up again. Then, he just sat there, staring at his cup and mumbling to himself.

Geralt stared at the monarch, and ten seconds later, when the king had still not uttered an intelligible word, he slowly turned to look at Rojet.

“Yes,” said the mage, “perhaps, I should explain. Though Dothan’s relationship with our two neighbors – Lyria and Rivia – are complicated and strained, even during the best of times, both kingdoms do have small embassies here in the capital city. And the monarchs of said kingdoms believe, for different reasons, that they have a legitimate claim to Dothan’s throne. I shan’t go into the details of those reasons, but if you’d like, we can offer you the third edition of ‘The History of Dothan’ from the palace library for you to peruse at your leisure. I’m sure you’ll find it fascinating.

“Now, it has been five or six decades since the last _overt_ attempt at usurping the Dothan crown. But His Majesty will assure you that they have not stopped in their desire for the kingdom. He would tell you that they are now simply doing so in more _covert_ means.”

“And let me guess,” said Geralt. “They don’t want this land due to your thirty-foot tall statue of Lebioda.”

The tiniest hint of a smile came to the mage’s face.

“You would be correct. Obviously, they desire the wealth derived from the anisetz mines and, to a lesser extent, our bridge.”

“The bridge?”

“Yes, we take in substantial revenue each year from levies we collect there. It was actually Prince Roope’s idea several years ago. We collect a tax on the goods that merchants bring across the bridge.”

“Okay, that’s good information to have, I guess,” said Geralt, “but the issue here is that, even if one – or both - of these ambassadors would like to usurp the throne or annex Dothan into their kingdom, it still doesn’t explain how they could be behind the killings. Because as far as I know, no one can control a lycanthrope, and the only being that could even possibly control a lower vampire – like an ekimmara or bruxa – would be a higher vampire.”

“That’s it then!” said Travid coming out of his stupor and pointing at Geralt. “One of them has got to be a vampire. Yeah, that’s it! So, go to it, witcher! I can tell you where they live. You go over there right now and cut them up! That’s what I’m paying you for.”

The mage cleared his throat.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” said Rojet smoothly, “perhaps, it would be best for the witcher here to, you know, _investigate_ and _verify_ if either of the gentlemen in question are, indeed, vampires before he goes in _slicing_ and _dicing_. I would hate for him to needlessly start a war with our closest neighbors.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Travid, calming down. “That’s sounds better. You go do your witcher-stuff, and then, let us know, posthaste.”

Geralt looked at the king, and then he turned to Rojet.

“Okay,” the witcher said with a nod. “Tell me where these embassies are, and I’ll go see what I can dig up.”


	5. Chapter 5

_Kaer Morhen – Spring 1187_

“None of you dolts know the answer?” asked Master Kalen, shaking his head.

When the young boys all remained silent, a snarl crossed the witcher’s face.

“You lot are worthless. This is simple alchemy. If this is the dung-heap level of study and attention-to-detail that you possess, you won’t last a week on the Path.”

The instructor shifted his glare towards Geralt, who was sitting in the back of the room and staring out of the nearby window towards the mountain lake below.

“Piss Boy!” yelled Master Kalen. “What are the characteristics and uses of arenaria?”

The little boy quickly turned his gaze from the picturesque view back towards the classroom. He noticed that virtually everyone in the room was staring at him. To an outside observer, it had probably looked like he hadn’t been paying attention and, therefore, couldn’t accurately describe the plant in question. However, as this was now the fifth time for him to go through the fodders’ basic alchemy class, he knew that he could probably teach the material himself despite not really caring all that much for the subject. For in none of his mother’s stories had she ever mentioned that the brave knights were trained in alchemy. 

He gave a small, silent sigh because he knew that this was not going to end well - but not because he didn’t know the answer. He’d learned that – in the past couple of years – Kalen only called on him out of ulterior motivations.

Geralt quickly glanced around the room at all of his classmates and then moved his eyes back toward Master Kalen, but he didn’t make eye-contact. He just stared at the witcher’s medallion and gave another small sigh. 

“Arenaria is a short, green plant usually found in fields. It has white, five-petaled flowers that are dusted with tiny specks of brown,” said Geralt in a soft voice. “It’s typically found in mild to cool climates – mostly north of the Yaruga – and it’s an essential ingredient for many blade oils. But its most common use is in the brewing of White Gull, which is an important alcohol base…Master Kalen.”

Geralt glanced up and made eye-contact with Kalen – who had the smallest of smiles on his face - and then he quickly lowered his eyes again.

“You hear that,” snarled the instructor. “Even Piss Boy is smarter than you lot. I ought to drown the whole, worthless bunch of you…but I’m not. Instead, for the next week, after dinner, you will all meet me at The Gauntlet. We’ll do some additional physical training. Perhaps that will motivate you to pay more attention to your lessons.”

Five minutes later, Master Kalen dismissed the boys from the room, and Geralt was the first one out the door. But he didn’t run or even walk fast down the halls of the keep. He knew that he couldn’t stop whatever was going to happen, and if it was going to happen, then he wanted to get it over with quickly. Sure enough, it was just moments later when he was pushed from behind and fell to the floor. He rolled over and looked up to see Reisel, an incredibly attractive kid with spikey, blond hair, blue eyes, a straight nose, and a square jaw. But none of that really mattered to the little boy. What did matter was Reisel’s size. Despite he and Geralt being the same age, he was over a half a foot taller and forty pounds heavier. 

Each year – as new boys were brought to Kaer Morhen - there was always one alpha-male within the fodder’s ranks. An individual who became the de facto leader of the group due to his dominant personality, his fighting ability, or both. Typically, it might take several weeks for this individual to rise to the top – several weeks filled with bloodied knuckles and bruised faces – until he had finally and clearly exhibited his superior strength to the group. Most years, these alpha-males left Geralt alone, which made sense. The little boy was clearly no threat to them.

Of course, that didn’t mean that Geralt hadn’t received his share of beatings during his time at Kaer Morhen. There was always at least one fodder every year who enjoyed tormenting others – those smaller and weaker than themselves - and no one was smaller and weaker than Geralt. In this year’s cohort, Reisel was that tormentor. He never seemed to tire of making Geralt the object of his ire. Thus, it was no surprise for Geralt to see the blond boy standing over him. Nor was it a surprise to see Farkus – Reisel’s toady – lurking right next to him. Farkus was the opposite of Reisel. Short, swarthy, beady-eyed, with a turned-up nose and crooked teeth. But they were just alike where it mattered most. They were both vicious and reveled in watching others suffer – which explained why the two were friends.

Geralt quickly glanced to the other side of Reisel – instinctively wanting to gather a full assessment of the situation - and was surprised to see a fodder that he’d never laid eyes on. This newcomer – who was even larger than Reisel - had a confused look on his face and was alternating glances between Geralt and the blond. 

“You like that, don’t you, Piss Boy?” said Reisel. “Making us look stupid.”

Geralt wanted to say that Reisel didn’t need any help from him to look stupid, but he kept his mouth shut.

“Master Kalen’s gonna rip us a new one because of you. If you’d have just kept your gob closed…but no, you had to show off.”

Geralt didn’t see the logic in Reisel’s argument, but, again, he stayed silent. He’d learned that there was nothing that he could ever say that would change his tormentors’ minds – not pleading, not kindness, and certainly not reason. But he’d also learned that running away never solved the problem either because he couldn’t hide forever. If anything, running away just made things worse. So, he slowly got to his feet, stood in front of the other boy who towered over him, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

He suddenly saw a slight change in Reisel’s face and posture, and – having been in enough fights to recognize the tells – he knew a punch was coming. He immediately put his arms up in front of his face, but he knew it wouldn’t ultimately matter. Reisel’s big fists pounded on his skinny forearms until one punch finally snuck through and connected with Geralt’s nose, causing blood to gush forth and sending him sprawling towards the cold, stone floor of the keep. Though he was in pain and seeing stars, he quickly curled up into a ball and covered his head – just in case Reisel decided to make today one of his longer beatings. 

“Not so smart now, are ya?” Reisel asked with a laugh and then looked to his left and right at the other fodder who had gathered around. Fights at Kaer Morhen were quite common, but even so, they still always drew a crowd. For, at the very least, they disrupted the monotonous routine of the day-after-day training.

When no more blows rained down, Geralt opened his eyes and looked upward through the gap in his arms. He expected to see Reisel sneering down at him, as was the custom. He was surprised to see, instead, Reisel and the large, new kid staring at one another.

“You got a problem?” asked Reisel.

The newcomer just shook his head. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t take a step backwards either. With a furrowed brow, he just continued to alternate looks between Reisel and Geralt, who was still on the floor.

“Well, that’s good, if you know what’s best for ya,” replied Reisel, who quickly turned away and headed towards the keep’s exit, giving Geralt a kick as he walked by.

A few moments later, Geralt moved his arms away from his face. When he looked up, he saw only the newcomer present in the hallway. The big boy was staring down at Geralt and had a perplexed look on his face. It was a slack-jawed face with a broad nose and big, dark-brown eyes.

“Move along, fodder,” came a growl echoing from down the hall. 

Both boys glanced back toward the classroom to see Master Kalen walking in their direction. 

“Yes, sir…I mean – yes, Master Witcher,” said the newcomer, and then he lumbered towards the exit.

Geralt was just getting to his feet as the instructor approached. The scarred witcher stared down at the bloody little boy, with not a shred of emotion on his face.

“Got something to say to me, Piss Boy?”

Geralt was pinching his nose tightly, trying to stop the flow of blood. He stared into Kalen’s eye and slowly shook his head.

“No, Master Kalen.”

A small smile came to the witcher’s face.

“Didn’t think so. Now, wipe up your worthless blood and get out of my keep.”

oOo

Geralt cupped his hands, brought some water from the horse’s trough up to his face, and spent a few moments washing the dried blood from his nose, lips and chin. Once he was done, he caught his reflection in the water and stared into his own eyes – eyes that were brimming with tears. But it wasn’t the physical pain that brought the tears. After four plus years at Kaer Morhen, he was getting used to pain.

The little boy clenched his jaws, and as he continued glaring at his own reflection, his breathing began to get deeper and faster. Suddenly, he ducked his head completely into the water trough and let out the loudest scream he could. As he yelled, he pictured in his mind what he’d like to do to Reisel, to Kalen, and to everyone else who had ever tortured him.

Even after his scream ended, he kept his head submerged, letting his tears disappear into the water. The unfairness of his life almost always brought him to tears, but he only cried when no one could see him. He’d made that vow to himself during his first year at the keep. Eventually, he lifted his head from the water, but the rage still boiled inside of him. Without even thinking, he began punching the water’s surface over and over before, finally, out of breath, he stood up straight and let the water from his wet hair run down his face, hiding the tears that were flowing again. He stood there motionless for a long time with tightly balled fists, inhaling and exhaling deeply, until the surface of the water calmed and he could, once more, see his reflection.

“I wish they were all dead,” he whispered to himself in between deep breaths.

Suddenly, he felt a nudge against his calves and glanced down to see his favorite orange cat bunting his head and torso against his legs. The scowl slowly left Geralt’s face and he began to control his breathing.

“Well, except for you. You’re the only one who cares, Marmalade.”

“Is they somethin’ in the trough?”

The words – spoken slowly and with a thick accent - startled Geralt, and he immediately looked up to see the newcomer standing beside the corral’s gate, holding a bowl in one hand. The little boy stared into the bigger lad’s face. Over the years, he had learned to assess who was and wasn’t an immediate danger to himself. He didn’t see the normal sneer on the newcomer’s face that everyone else wore when they addressed him. In fact, when he looked closely at the big boy, he saw nothing but genuine curiosity.

“No. I…no,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “Why?”

“Well…cause…you was beatin’ on it… so I figured they must be a snake or somethin’ in there.”

“No. No snake.” The little boy furrowed his brow. “What do you want?”

At that question, a confused look came across the newcomer’s face.

“I…I don’t wants nothin’. I just…I just brought you this,” said the much larger boy, holding out the bowl towards him.

Geralt said nothing – first staring at the bowl and then back into the boy’s eyes.

“What is it?” he finally asked, nodding his chin towards the bowl.

“Today’s grub.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes even more.

“Why? Why bring it to me?”

The big kid shrugged. “Well, I didn’t see ya at lunch. Thought ya might be hungry is all.”

Geralt stood there for several long moments, just staring at the stranger. Now that he wasn’t in the middle of getting beaten by Reisel, he was able to take in the fodder’s features in more detail. He was almost a foot taller than Geralt and probably weighed twice as much. And even though he had a chubby face, Geralt could tell that he wasn’t fat. He was what his mother would have called ‘big-boned.’ 

Eventually, the little boy slowly approached the newcomer, never taking his gaze from the big kid’s face. Up close, he thought that the stranger looked a little like a basset hound, with perpetually mournful eyes. They certainly didn’t look to contain any menace, thought Geralt.

“You didn’t spit in it, did you?” he asked.

For a second time, a look of confusion came to the big kid’s face.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, shaking his head.

Geralt shrugged, and then, with a small sigh, he tentatively took the bowl from the newcomer’s hand.

“Thanks.”

He turned around, walked over to the barn, and sat down – leaning his back against the wall. He quickly let his doubts fall away – for he was ravenous, and he’d also learned not to be a picky eater over the years. He figured that – whatever the new kid may have put in his food – he’d probably eaten worse already.

As Geralt began to devour his lunch, the lad approached and sat down next to him.

“Wow, you really like that grub? I thought it was real bitter tastin’.”

Geralt didn’t bother looking up from the bowl. He just kept shoveling the food into his mouth.

“It’s the special herbs and roots that Master Hieronymus puts in all our food,” said Geralt in between bites. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Oh…okay,” said the big kid. After about a minute of silence, of just sitting and watching the little boy eat, he spoke again.

“So…why’d that blond boy beat on ya in the hall? Was you really tryin’ to make him look stupid?” 

“No.”

“Oh…then, what did ya do to him to make him so mad?”

Geralt suddenly stopped eating – the spoon halfway to his mouth – and looked at the stranger out of the corner of his eye. He paused for a moment before shrugging.

“Nothing.”

“So…he really did beat ya up for just answerin’ the question right?”

Geralt looked up from his bowl and into the new kid’s eyes.

“No. He beats me up because he likes it…and he can. Those are the only reasons he needs.”

He searched the big kid’s eyes and subconsciously held his breath – waiting to see what his response would be. Would he view Geralt as pathetic – just like everyone else seemed to think? Would he make fun of him and then immediately leave, going back to the rest of the fodder?

“Well, that ain’t very nice. Cain’t ya talk to one of the instructors ‘bout it?”

Geralt simply shook his head, and then he went back to quickly spooning food into his mouth.

“Tried it once – the first week I was here,” he answered in between bites. “Seemed like I was getting pummeled every day so I talked to Yastic about it – he’s the groundskeeper. He told me there was nothing he could do and said I should just learn to live with it. But I didn’t listen to him and I went to Master Kalen about it. The next morning – while we were all assembled before physical training – Kalen told the entire barracks that they had a baby in their midst who needed to be toughened up. After that, the beatings just got worse.”

When there was no response from the newcomer, Geralt stopped eating and looked over at him. The big kid had furrowed his brow.

“Well, that don’t seem very fair.”

Geralt looked him in the eyes, gave a little sigh, and nodded.

“There’s nothing fair about this place. Best learn that now.”

“Okay. Well, thanks for tellin’ me…I don’t know your name.”

“It’s Geralt.”

“Okay, thanks for tellin’ me, Geralt. I’m…I’m Eugene,” he said with a large smile and extending his hand.

Geralt looked from the boy’s face down to his hand and back again. Eventually, a small, tentative smile came to his lips, and he put the empty bowl on the ground next to him.

“Nice to meet you, Eugene,” he said, shaking the big kid’s hand, his shy smile still on his face.

oOo

_Day 1 – Dothan; February 1194_

Geralt was pacing in his private bedchamber waiting for Delyla to arrive. He’d caught her eye before leaving dinner with King Travid and Rojet and had whispered to her what he needed. He’d only met her just a few hours prior, but he was already considering her a friend – someone he could trust and rely upon. A moment later, there was a knock on the door, and he rushed over to open it. Delyla stepped into the room with a bundle of clothes in her hands. The teen looked down at the clothes and then into her eyes.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re the best.”

As he quickly headed over to the bed and started undressing, she asked, “What do you need these clothes for?”

“I’m going out tonight,” he answered, looking over his shoulder. “And I don’t want to wear this expensive garb. Because I have no idea where I may end up.”

“Oh, dear. Just what are you going to be doing tonight?”

Geralt was now down to his underpants and putting on some old, faded clothes that looked much like his own outfit that he’d had on when he’d arrived – well, except cleaner. He sat down on the bed, slipped on his spare boots, and began lacing them up.

“I actually don’t know,” he said. “I’m making this up as I go along.”

“What do you mean - you’re _making_ it up? Don’t you know what you’re doing?”

The teen stopped tying the laces and sat there with his eyes cast down to the floor. He exhaled, lifted his eyes to meet Delyla’s, and slowly shook his head.

“I have no idea what the hell I’m doing,” he said barely above a whisper.

“What? How…I thought you witchers were trained for this sort of thing.”

“Not _this_ ,” he said, raising his hands up to his side. “They train us to do simple, straightforward work. Killing drowners or nekkers in some back-water village not…whatever the hell is going on here.”

“Geralt, have you ever even had a contract before?”

“Yeah, but, like I said, nothing like this. They train us to take _simple_ contracts. You talk to the contract giver. You might interview a couple of people – anyone who might have seen the monster. You inspect the bodies – if there are any – and look for tracks. You prepare for the battle, follow the tracks, and then kill the monster. That’s it. Very straightforward. They _certainly_ don’t prepare us for how to deal with royal courts, kings stealing their brothers’ wives, ambassadors trying to usurp the throne, mystery monsters that don’t act like _anything_ I’ve ever studied, or any of the other insanity going on in this place.”

At that, he broke his gaze and stared at the floor again.

“You really are in over your head, aren’t you?” she said softly.

He looked up and into her eyes and slightly nodded his head. They stared at one another for a moment, and then the teen saw her face change – her look of concern replaced with a small smile.

“Then, it’s a good thing I’m here to help. I was actually planning to talk to you tonight anyway – even before you asked me to bring the clothes by.”

_‘Really?’_ he thought. _‘She wanted to talk with me?’_ And, suddenly, the teen felt a surge a warmth inside.

“Why?” he asked, looking her right in the eyes. “What did you want to talk about?”

She came over to the bed and sat down next to him.

“Rojet. You – you shouldn’t trust him, Geralt. I know that – of the bunch – he seems the most, well, sane, but he’s hiding something. I know it.”

“What is it? How do you know?”

Delyla gave him a sympathetic look.

“Geralt, this palace may be big, but no one around here can hide their secrets. And rumors fly faster than the wind. Several times a week, he leaves the palace at night, and he’s gone for hours. Nobody knows where he goes or what he does – and that’s what concerns me.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s up to something nefarious. Couldn’t he just be, I don’t know, heading to a tavern or to a girlfriend’s? Something innocent like that?”

Delyla shook her head.

“No. Like I said, everybody around here knows everybody’s business. If it was that simple, then people in town would’ve seen him and talked already. So, the fact that nobody knows what he’s doing – that’s what makes me suspicious. And, not only that, but ever since Queen Elize’s death, it seems like he’s taking more and more of these nighttime outings.”

Geralt turned away in thought for a second and nodded his head.

“You know, it makes sense,” he said, looking back at her. “I think my subconscious was already suspecting him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because – and I still don’t know what I’m dealing with here but – it makes sense that a magic-user is somehow involved.”

Delyla’s eyes widened slightly.

“You think so? Why?”

“Because of the monster. Like I said, it doesn’t act like _anything_ I’ve ever read about in any bestiary. So, I’ve thought about what it could be. And there are several possibilities, but I’m leaning towards two. It could be some kind of magical construct. Some special golem that a sorcerer created. I’ve seen golems, first-hand, and it’s really amazing what some of these sorcerers can create. That could explain why all the clues don’t add up. Or, this monster could be the result of some kind of curse. Now, curses don’t work like math or science. With curses, A plus B doesn’t _always_ equal C. There are all kinds of factors that come into play – the kind of curse, the words used, the emotional state of the person casting the curse, if the curse was intentional or accidental. Curses are very complicated, and that’s why they can be so unique. But, either way – if this monster is some kind of golem or was caused by a powerful curse – then, more than likely a wielder of magic is behind it.”

Delyla was staring hard at Geralt with a serious look on her face.

“That makes sense,” she said with a nod. “So, what are you going to do?”

Geralt sighed. “I don’t know. I guess…I could go visit him in his lab…see if I can pick up on anything. Maybe I can break into his room and lab when he’s not here. Wait – how do you even know that he leaves the palace at night? Does he not just teleport?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know if he _can_ or not, but he doesn’t. As far as I know, he’s always grabbed a horse from the stables and simply ridden out of the side gate. I mean, that’s why he was noticed.”

“Okay, that’s actually good to know.”

“What is?”

“That he may not be able to teleport. Not all mages can.”

“Really?”

“No. According to Hieronymus – the master-mage at Kaer Morhen – teleportation is an incredibly high-level skill. Only the most elite wielders of magic can handle a spell like that.”

“Really? I just assumed that all sorcerers were capable of doing all magic.”

“Not according to him. I guess, it’s like anything else in the world. There are low-skilled mages, high-skilled, and everything in between. He even says that there are different branches of magic that a sorcerer can specialize in. And, apparently, very few are experts in multiple branches.”

“Interesting. And Rojet not being able to teleport tells you what kind of magic he specializes in?”

“No,” he said, and then a small smile came to his face. “I probably know as much about magic as I do which spoon to use at a royal dinner.” 

Delyla smiled at that. “That’s not much then.”

“Yeah, but Rojet not teleporting does tell me one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“That I can follow him. Does he always leave at the same time?”

She nodded. “The few times that I’ve seen him heading towards the stables it’s always been right around nine-bells.”

“Okay,” he said resolutely. “Then, it looks like I’ve got a plan for tonight after all. I’ll hide in the stables and wait to see if he comes out. If so, I’ll follow him to wherever he’s going.”

Delyla slowly reached over and rested her hand on top of his.

“Just…be careful, okay, Geralt?”

The teen couldn’t answer. He looked down at her small hand, feeling her skin on his. He swallowed and looked into her eyes.

“Of course,” he said in a whisper.

He noticed that she was staring back, but then she suddenly pulled her hand away, stood up, and walked to the door. Once there, she turned around and gazed back at the witcher.

“I – I really need to go, but…please…promise me that you’ll be safe – that you won’t do anything stupid, okay?”

The teen swallowed again.

“Yeah, of course.”

She gave a final nod and exited his bedchamber. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, he whispered, “I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

oOo

Geralt stood deathly still in the shadows of an alleyway that ran between two buildings. From where he stood, he had a direct view of the royal palace. Even though it was dark, he still had the cowl of his cloak over his head. He didn’t want to risk any sort of light – from the moon or a candle - reflecting off of his white hair and giving away his position. He looked up into the sky to see clouds partially obscuring the moon. 

_‘Good,’_ he thought. ‘ _Cover the whole thing. The darker the better.’_

And then he turned his eyes back toward the closed, side gate that was nearest to the palace’s stables. He hoped that, if Rojet did actually leave tonight, he’d grab his horse and leave out of the closest gate. It was a gamble, but he wasn’t sure what else to do.

Initially, the witcher had gone down to the stables himself and started grooming Roach. He figured that if the mage did show up, then his presence wouldn’t be that suspicious. Because the truth was that he did actually groom his horse every day. However, the more that he’d thought about it, the more he’d realized that his plan was faulty. Even if his presence didn’t arouse Rojet’s suspicion, being in the stables complicated how he could actually tail the mage. Because of the attacks, all the palace gates were closed and guarded, which meant that after Rojet left the palace, the guards would immediately close the gates behind him. Which meant that Geralt wouldn’t be able to see which way he went. He had supposed that he could have left the palace at the same time as Rojet, but that idea didn’t appeal to the teen. He didn’t want to do anything that would sound off the warning bells in the mage’s mind. Thus, after quickly grooming Roach, he had decided the best course of action would be to wait outside the gates. Thus, his reason for being in the alleyway.

The witcher was also on foot. Roach was still too young to handle the stress from the extra weight of a rider, and since Geralt needed to be as inconspicuous as possible when following the mage, he didn’t particularly want to be riding a strange horse, whose habits and temperament he was unfamiliar with. The last thing he needed was the horse whinnying or neighing at an inopportune moment and alerting the mage that he was being followed. Plus, he knew that he could run as fast as a horse could canter and do so for at least an hour and not get winded. Thus, as long as the mage didn’t spur his mount into a gallop, the witcher figured that he’d be able to easily trail him simply by running behind.

Suddenly, he heard the sound of bells reverberating through the night air. He counted out the gongs and nodded when the ninth – and last – one rang. If Delyla was correct, and if Rojet was actually going on a night-time excursion, then the mage should be exiting the palace any moment now. Ten minutes later, the side gate opened, and someone on horseback rode out. Unfortunately, this person – like Geralt – also had a cowl covering his face. Geralt consciously widened the pupils of his eyes a touch to let in more light, but he still was unable to catch a glimpse of the face under the cowl.

‘Damn it,” he cursed to himself.

A moment later, he bowed his head slightly as the rider approached – even though he figured that if he couldn’t discern the rider’s face in the dark, then there was no way he or she could discern his. The horse and rider clip-clopped past on the cobblestone street, and then the witcher waited to a count of five before he walked out of the alleyway and began his pursuit.

_‘It’s gotta be him,’_ the teen told himself.

Fortunately for the witcher, it still wasn’t too late in the evening. Therefore, the streets weren’t completely empty, and he simply walked naturally and tried to just blend in with the other pedestrians. It also helped that, so far, the mage was simply leading his horse at a casual pace through the city. The teen was staying about a half-block back – not too close to be seen but certainly not so far way that he was going to lose the tail. After a couple of blocks, Geralt was feeling more confident because the rider hadn’t even once looked back – as if he suspected that he was being followed. But confidence wasn’t the only thing he was feeling. The entire time that he was spying on the mage, his mind was running wild – wondering if Rojet would lead him straight to the monster. And even though the swords on his back were covered by the cloak that he was wearing, thinking of the monster made the teen instinctively reach up and touch the hilt of his silver sword with his fingertip. Just to verify its presence. He sighed and shook his head at his own actions.

_‘Calm down,’_ he chastised himself. _‘You know they’re there. You can feel them on your back.’_

Five minutes later, Geralt saw that Rojet was heading towards the city’s gate. The teen stopped in his tracks for just a second as he thought what that might mean. 

_‘Is this a good thing or bad?’_ he wondered.

And then his eyes widened slightly when he saw the rider spur his mount into a trot once they were through the gate and on the other side of the city wall. Geralt immediately began walking quickly toward the gate. The last thing he wanted to do was lose the mage now. As soon as he exited the gate, his pupils widened. In the city, there had been lit braziers on nearly every street corner, but outside the walls, the only illumination to be found came from either a few candles flickering in the windows of huts or from the partially obscured moon.

The witcher came to a stop when he noticed that the rider was no longer in front of him.

_‘Damn it!’_ he cursed to himself.

He quickly swiveled his head, scanning the cross street for the mage.

_‘There!’_ he exclaimed to himself.

The witcher could just make out the rider and horse in the distance, and it appeared that he was heading out of town. The teen immediately broke into a full run – all the while holding on tightly to his scabbard strap with his left hand in order to reduce any possible noise from the scabbards or hilts banging together. A minute later, Geralt came to the outskirts of Anisberg and could just barely see the mage and his horse far down the main, forest-lined road that headed north through the country side of the kingdom.

‘Hell,’ he cursed under his breath.

Geralt quickly removed his cloak and tossed it to the side for he didn’t want the material to snag on any bushes or tree limbs. He then held onto his swords and took off at a sprint along the edge of the woods in pursuit of Rojet. He knew that he could have simply run right down the middle of the road, but he didn’t want to risk it. If, by chance, the mage happened to turn his horse around, the teen would have been impossible to miss – especially now that the cloud cover seemed to have vanished and the moon was shining brightly.

Rojet kept his horse at a fast trot down the road, and Geralt continued running after him. Fifteen minutes turned to thirty, and the mage still kept riding.

_‘Where in the hell is he going?’_ thought the witcher, but still he ran.

Geralt figured that it must have been at least another half-hour before he finally saw the mage turn off the road towards the east. The witcher immediately stopped where he was and scanned the tree line, trying to see if the mage was in there waiting and watching. After about a minute – a minute when his breathing and heartrate returned to normal – the teen realized that he was all alone. He crossed the road and headed towards where Rojet had entered the woods, and he let out a small breath when he saw a trail. It wasn’t big – just wide enough for two horses to travel down side-by-side – but it was well-worn. Now, that he was back in the woods, the witcher was feeling much more comfortable with his surroundings. This is what he was used to. He paused for just a moment and focused his hearing. He picked up all kinds of forest sounds, and he also detected the horse and rider up ahead – moving away from him. He stepped off of the path, back into the woods, and began to skulk cautiously in their direction.

The witcher carefully stepped over fallen limbs and underneath low-hanging branches, doing his best not to make a sound, and less than five minutes after finding the trail, he stopped in his tracks. Just up ahead, through the trees, he could see a cabin in a small clearing in the woods. He scanned left and right but didn’t see the mage or his horse anywhere. He took a couple of steps forward when he suddenly saw Rojet exiting a small stable that was to the right of the cabin, and that was when, the witcher’s foot came down on a dead, tree limb, causing it to snap. He immediately froze where he was. He saw that the mage had done the same.

“Mathias?” said Rojet into the dark woods. His voice was just above a whisper. “Is that you?”

After receiving no answer, the mage made a motion with both hands and snapped his right hand out in front of him. Above his upturned palm was a ball of blue flames. To Geralt, it looked to be much more than just a source a light. The witcher guessed it was some kind of offensive, magical spell that could do serious damage.

_‘Swell,’_ thought the teen.

And then the mage began slowly walking in his direction.

“Mathias?” the mage said again.

Geralt was still hidden by the darkness and the woods, but he knew that if the sorcerer crossed the clearing, then he’d be discovered. He wasn’t sure what he should do. Should he flee? Should he simply come out and announce his presence? But what if the monster was in the cabin? He didn’t know the right answer, but what he did do was slowly lift his right hand to his sword and prepare the other to sign his Quen shield. 

Suddenly, his eyes widened slightly as he heard a noise coming from behind him – at his eight o’clock. He slowly turned his head, and through the trees, he could just make out another horse and rider coming up the trail.

_‘Bugger me,’_ the teen thought, as he stood perfectly still, waiting to see what would happen next.

The rider made his or her way into the clearing, and, even though the person also wore a cowl, Rojet must have recognized the figure because the blue ball of fire above his hand immediately blinked out. The rider took the horse into the stables, and a moment later, the mystery person came out and the two of them headed toward the front door of the cabin. The unknown rider entered first, but then Rojet turned and slowly scanned the woods – as if he still suspected that someone or something was hidden by the trees. He swirled his hands in a strange motion while voicing some unintelligible words before entering the cabin and shutting the door behind him.

It was at least another ten minutes before Geralt finally decided to move. He stayed in the woods – hidden by the trees - and slowly moved along the perimeter of the clearing. Once he was along the side of the house – out of view of the front door – he crouched low and duck walked towards the cabin. Five feet from the house, he stopped when he felt the wolf-head medallion in his pocket vibrate against his thigh. He stayed completely still and simply scanned his eyes left and right. Not seeing anything, he then slowly swiveled his head. He again detected nothing so he looked straight ahead. He could feel something in front of him. The hairs on his neck and arms were standing on end. He squinted his eyes, and he would swear that he could just pick up the slightest, bluish tint in the air – as if there were colored, dusts particles floating about. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but he knew it had to be some kind of magic. Probably some kind of shield that, at the very least, would alert Rojet of intruders. He focused his hearing, and though he could hear murmuring coming from inside the house, the words were indecipherable. The witcher sighed, slowly and quietly made his way back into the woods, and then sat down with his back against a tree and with a clear view of the cabin. 

For the next two hours, while he waited, the witcher replayed all of the day’s events over and over in his mind. He dissected every conversation he’d had – from that morning’s encounter with Brother Kennit at the Lebioda temple all the way through that night’s discussion with Delyla in his bedchamber. He tried to remember every detail, thinking that the answer to the mystery of the monster was in there somewhere. But it was like a big ball of yarn with a dozen, loose ends poking out. He just didn’t know which thread to pull on in order to unravel it all. At one point, he looked up and saw a gibbous moon right above him. It was very bright, and though it wasn’t quite full, he knew that it would be within a couple of days.

It was then that he heard a noise coming from the cabin. Rojet and the mystery guest walked out the front door, headed to the stables, and, a minute later, rode down the narrow trail on their horses. Geralt followed them at a safe distance, and when they came to the end of the trail, the two riders headed off in opposite directions – the mage back toward Anisberg and the other went north. For a split second, the teen wasn’t sure what to do – just who to follow. But it immediately became clear. He wasn’t positive that Rojet was heading back to the palace, but it was a good bet. What the witcher really needed to know was the identity of the mystery guest.

Luckily, tailing Rojet’s companion wasn’t too taxing for Geralt. The rider never spurred his or her horse into more than a trot. At one point, the rider turned off the main road and headed west down another wide and well-traveled road. It wasn’t long after that when the rider came to an estate with a high, outer wall. The road lead right up to a large gate with a couple of men standing guard above it behind the parapets. Geralt stayed hidden in the trees but got as close as he possibly could. He furrowed his brow when he noticed the giant crest mounted above the front gates. The crest displayed the royal sigil of House Dothan. A moment later, one of the guards called out to the rider.

“Halt! Show yourself!”

The rider advanced the horse forward, stopped at the gate, and dropped his cowl.

“It’s me, Nason.”

“Oh, yes. I’m – I’m sorry, Your Highness. I just needed to make sure it was you.”

“No need to apologize for just doing your job, Nason. In fact, I appreciate your vigilance.”

The guard turned his head and shouted, “Open the gates. It’s the prince.”

Geralt watched the rider enter the estate, and then the gates closed behind him.

“Holy shit,” whispered the teen. 

He tried to remember the name that Rojet had called out back at the cabin in the woods.

_‘Elias, Matias…Mathias. Yes, Mathias! That was it,’_ thought the witcher.

Prince Mathias - was that the name of King Travid’s brother? He didn’t know, but it would be easy to find out. But the bigger question was – what in the hell was the king’s mage-advisor doing having clandestine meetings with the king’s brother? The very brother whose wife Travid had stolen, and the very wife who was now dead.

The witcher nodded his head. Maybe he’d just found a thread to pull.


	6. Chapter 6

_Kaer Morhen – Spring 1187_

“Did somethin’ happen to all the horses?” asked Eugene.

“No,” said Geralt, shaking his head. “Why?”

The boys and Marmalade were sitting near the back of an empty stall in the horses’ stables. It was the stall that Geralt used as his living quarters. That first night in the barracks all those years ago had been his only night ever sleeping there. Even after his bedwetting ceased to be a problem, he hadn’t returned. The only time he ever entered the barracks was to quickly grab a meal or if he had any chores to do inside the building.

“Well, this barn is so big, but they’s only a few horses in here.”

“Yeah, that’s because all the witchers are out on the Path. They typically only come back here during the winter months. When they’re back, this barn gets full. But in the spring – like now - we only have Django – the stallion – and Clarissa and Bessie – the two broodmares. But they should both foal in the next month or so…so there should be some more horses soon.”

“Foal?”

“Have their babies.”

“Oh,” said Eugene, nodding his head. “Ya know, I like the white horse. It sure is pretty.”

“That’s Clarissa…but she’s not actually white. She’s gray.”

“Really? Cause she looks sorta white to me.”

“I know, but Yastic says that since her skin is dark, then that means she’s a ‘gray’ horse. If her skin was pink, then she’d be white.”

“Oh...okay. You know…I wish I was smart like you.”

Geralt looked at the big kid sitting across from him and smiled shyly.

“You really think I’m smart?”

“Sure, you knows lots of stuff – about horses and…well, everything. You’s the smartest in all our classes – alchemy, and maths, and language. I can’t get my head wrapped ‘round any of that.”

Eugene then looked down to the ground.

“I…I never been good at learnin’ things.”

“Well, you’ll get it. I know you will.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah. And I only know all that stuff because I’ve sat through the classes so many times. And I’ll help you if you need it.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Sure. And, anyway, everything I know is useless. I’d rather be doing what you’re doing. I’m down here every afternoon – feeding horses, milking the cows, cleaning out the chicken coops – doing stupid stuff. While you get to learn how to fight with a sword.”

“Well, to be honest, it ain’t that much fun. Master Barin’s a mean teacher, and everybody already knows so much more than me. I’m bruised all over – from everyone whackin’ me with they’s little, play swords. I’d rather spend my time here – around the horses…brushin’ ‘em and feedin’ ‘em. They’s a whole lot nicer than Master Barin and the rest.”

Geralt smiled.

“Yeah, well that’s not saying much. Anyway, you’ll have all the time in the world to brush and feed your horse one day.”

“Watcha mean?”

“Don’t you know?”

Eugene shook his head.

“Every witcher gets a horse before they go out on the Path.”

“Is that right?” he asked, a big smile coming to his face. “That’ll be great.”

After a few moments, the smile disappeared, and he furrowed his brow.

“But, Geralt, they’s only two females. How often do they…what’d you call it…foal?”

“Yeah, foal. They do it once a year, sometime in the spring.”

Eugene scrunched his face up, looked down at the ground, and scratched the side of his head. Eventually, he looked up at Geralt.

“But, then…that ain’t enough for everybody. They’s a lot more kids here than horses.”

Geralt didn’t respond at first. He just stared the big kid in the eyes.

“Eugene, I know you’ve only been here a week, but…has no one told you about the Trial of Grasses yet?”

“I’s heard people mention it, but I didn’t know what they’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

“Oh,” said Geralt softly. After a moment of hesitation, he continued. “Well, this fall, you…all the fodder will go through some…experiments. It’s called the Trial of the Grasses. I don’t know the details really. I just know that not many…make it through. Usually, it’s only one or two. Last year, there were none. And even the ones that do live, well, they’re bed-ridden for several weeks. But if you survive, then your body’s changed. You get cat-eyes so you can see in the dark…and you’re supposed to be stronger and faster and able to perform simple magic - all kinds of cool stuff.”

“But…you don’t know what happens…in the trial?” The big kid’s normally sad looking eyes were now wide with fear.

Geralt shook his head.

“Not exactly. I don’t talk to any of the PM’s. I asked Yastic about it once, but he cursed at me and tried to swat me. I don’t know why he got so mad, but he told me to never bring it up again. You really never heard about this before?”

“Nah. I mean…I’s heard other kids around the village tell stories about witchers. Said that witchers came about when monsters, you know, slept with human women. But I know that ain’t true…cause I’m supposed to be a witcher, but my momma and daddy they’s both human. I ain’t never heard ‘bout no ‘speriments, though.”

Eugene lowered his head for a moment, and when he raised it again, Geralt could see tears in his eyes.

“Geralt…I don’t wanna die.”

Suddenly, the big boy lowered his chin to his chest and began to cry.

“They didn’t…tell me…I was gonna die,” he said in between sobs.

The little boy didn’t know what to do or say. He turned his head so that he wouldn’t have to watch the tears fall down Eugene’s cheeks. It wasn’t that in all his years at Kaer Morhen he’d never seen another fodder cry. He’d seen plenty. He’d just never cared. No one that he’d ever seen in tears had ever been nice to him so why should he have given a damn about them. But Eugene was different. He had a kind heart. The two of them had eaten every meal together over the past week and had sat next to one another in all their morning classes. Geralt thought of him as a friend – his first real friend. He hated to see him cry, and he hated even more the fact that he didn’t know what to say to make him stop.

And then something, suddenly, clicked in Geralt’s mind – that as big and as strong as Eugene was, Geralt was, in one sense, actually tougher. He continued to stare at his sobbing friend until he eventually nodded his head. He got up from where he was sitting and crossed to the other side of the stall. He sat down next to the large boy and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder a couple of times. Immediately, Eugene turned and flung his arms around Geralt, almost knocking the little boy over. Geralt tried pushing Eugene off of him with one hand while he continued to pat him on the shoulder with the other. 

“It’ll be okay, Eugene. It’ll be okay,” he said. “You’re bigger and stronger than any fodder I’ve ever seen. If anyone can survive, it’ll be you.”

“You…really think so?” he blubbered.

“Yeah, you’ll make it through. I promise.”

At that point, Eugene let go of Geralt and sat up straight. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, looked at Geralt, and nodded.

“Okay. If you promise, then I believes ya. You’s real smart…and I know you wouldn’t lie to me.”

The little boy nodded his head. “That’s right, Eugene. I wouldn’t lie to you. Everything’s gonna work out.”

He patted the big boy on the shoulder again.

“Thanks, Geralt…for not makin’ fun of me. Everybody’s always made fun of me. But you ain’t never have. You’s a good friend.”

“What a bunch of pussies!”

Geralt immediately looked up to see Reisel and his lackey, Farkus, standing in the open doorway of the stall.

“Are y’all gonna kiss next?” taunted Farkus, and the two boys laughed. 

“I figured you for a poofter, Piss Boy, but not the dimwit,” said Reisel, and then he turned his focus towards Eugene.

“So…what about it…retard? This what y’all been doing all week down here? Crying and kissing on each other? Is that what you like to do - kiss on boys?”

Geralt quickly glanced at Eugene, whose head was hanging low, his eyes on the ground.

“Hey, shit-for-brains, we asked you a question,” said Farkus.

Despite the insult, the big kid still didn’t respond, his eyes still cast downward.

The two boys stepped into the stall, causing Marmalade to flee over the wooden, side-wall and out of sight.

“Reisel, I think he’s too stupid to talk.”

The blond boy smirked.

“Is that it, dummy? Too retarded to speak?”

“Or too craven,” added Farkus with a chuckle.

“Which is it, retard?” demanded Reisel, and then he laughed again. “You got shit for brains or jelly for a spine?”

When Eugene still remained silent, a scowl crossed Reisel’s face.

“Hey, retard, I’m talking to you. Answer me…retard.”

Suddenly, the stall was filled with a high-pitched yell.

Geralt was on his feet charging right at Reisel. He tackled the much bigger boy around the waist, knocking him off balance, and they both toppled to the ground. Geralt pushed himself off of Reisel and raised his fist in the air, a second away from striking the hateful boy right in the face. But he never got the chance as he was suddenly knocked sideways and onto the ground by Farkus. Immediately, Reisel was on top of him and started raining down punches onto his head and face. Geralt instantly did what he always did, which was to cover his face with his arms, and when he did, Reisel instead began pummeling the little boy in the torso. One rock-hard punch landed right in Geralt’s stomach and completely knocked the wind out of him. He started gasping for breath, and as soon as he realized that he couldn’t actually inhale, his mind instantly panicked. He was suddenly terrified that he was going die, and being panicked caused him to lower his arms, at which point, Reisel began landing one blow after another squarely into his face.

Things became a blur for Geralt. As bright spots flashed in his vision, he feebly raised his hands in front of him to ward off Reisel’s powerful blows, but to no avail. He felt his nose crack and his mouth fill with blood. But despite the chaos swirling around him, somehow, there were calm thoughts running through the deepest recesses of his mind. It was as if some part of himself had detached from the rest of him.

_‘This is it’,_ a tranquil voice said. _‘I’m about to die here in this horse’s stall. But that’s okay. I can go be with Mama.’_

But just as quickly as the voice came, it was suddenly gone. Geralt came to and realized that he was no longer being hit and that Reisel was no longer sitting on top of him. He sat up, and while blinking his eyes, he heard a cacophony of sounds – shouting, the neighing of horses, and hooves kicking against the sides of stalls. His eyes finally came into focus and he saw that Eugene was gripping both Reisel and Farkus by their hair – one in each hand – and was banging their heads together like a pair of cymbals.

“Don’t hurt my friend! Don’t hurt my friend!” he yelled each time he slammed their heads together.

Though Reisel’s face was a bloody mess, he was still doing his best – albeit ineffectively - to fight back against Eugene, but Farkus wasn’t moving at all. Geralt’s eyes went wide at seeing the boy’s limp body being tossed about like a rag-doll.

“Eugene! Stop!” he yelled, running up to his friend and grabbing his arm. “Stop, Eugene! You’re gonna kill ‘em!”

Geralt kept shouting and tugging on Eugene’s sleeve until the big kid finally stopped.

“Let go of ‘em, Eugene,” implored Geralt. “They’ve had enough. Please, let go of ‘em.”

Eugene looked at Geralt and then back at the two boys in front of him.

“Don’t hurt my friend,” he said a final time before releasing them. 

Reisel whimpered, dropped to his knees, and brought his hands up to his shattered face, but Farkus fell straight down onto the ground – like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Geralt – breathing heavy and bleeding from his nose - stared down into the boy’s open and unmoving eyes and then quickly looked back at Eugene.

“Come on, Eugene! We gotta get out of here!”

oOo

_Day 2 – Dothan; February 1194_

The sun was just rising as Geralt scarfed down the last of his breakfast at a small table in the royal kitchen. He hadn’t made it back to the palace until several hours past midnight. He’d tried his best to meditate for a couple of hours, but, if he was honest with himself, it was a fairly piss-poor attempt. He just couldn’t get his mind to stop speculating about the connection between Rojet and Prince Mathias. Finally, he’d decided that the meditation wasn’t helping so he’d left his bedchamber and searched the palace until he found the kitchens. Luckily, it hadn’t taken much to convince the cook to whip up a quick breakfast for him. And just as he was swallowing his last bite of sausage and eggs, Delyla walked through the swinging door, yawning and rubbing her eyes. Geralt thought that she looked beautiful – tired, but still beautiful – and a small smile came to his face upon seeing her. Her eyes landed on the witcher and she stopped short.

“What are you – you’re up. You’re back,” she said. She motioned with her head and walked back out the door.

“Thanks, Pierre, that hit the spot,” said Geralt, pushing back from the table, and then he quickly followed Delyla.

“Anytime, witcher,” answered the diminutive cook as Geralt exited the kitchen.

Delyla was waiting for him out in the hall, and once she saw him, she grabbed him by the hand, pulled him into the nearest room, and shut the doors behind her.

“What happened with you?” she asked breathlessly. “I was worried _sick_ last night. I stayed up late and saw Rojet return, but then you didn’t come back. When did you return? And what happened?”

She was still holding his hand, and Geralt had no intention of letting go if she didn’t.

“You won’t believe what I found out,” he said, and he went on to describe his evening. Afterwards, he asked Delyla a few questions, and she verified that the original residence for House Dothan – which dated back for centuries - was several miles north of town and that King Travid’s brother did, indeed, live on that country estate.

“Rojet met with Prince Mathias,” she said, shaking her head. “I wonder what it means.” She looked up at Geralt. “So, what are going to do, now? Are you going to tell the king?”

“Not yet.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because it may mean nothing, and I want to get some kind of proof before I start making any type of accusations – especially against a prince and the mage-advisor of the royal court.”

“So, you’re planning on going out to the estate today?”

“I think so. If for nothing else, then to simply talk with the prince. Get a feel for his personality.”

“Do you think he’ll actually talk with you – especially if he’s somehow behind the killings?”

“Don’t know, but I’ve got this,” he said as he pulled out a small scroll. “It’s a decree from King Travid – signifying that I am working on his behalf and, therefore, ordering all citizens of Dothan to offer me their assistance. Hopefully, this will help. And you know what – if the prince is unwilling to talk, then that’ll be pretty telling.”

Delyla squeezed his hand.

“Okay. Just be careful. I know I said that last night, too, but…this is just so scary.”

The witcher squeezed her hand back and was just about to answer her when her eyes widened slightly.

“Oh, I forgot. This came for you last night.”

She let go of his hand, reached into a pocket, and gave him a small scroll.

“I think it’s from Ambassador Hintz,” she said.

“Who?”

“The emissary from Rivia.”

“How do you know?”

“The seal – it’s the crest of Rivia.”

Geralt looked at the crest imprinted on the wax seal. It was an imprint of three rhombus-shaped figures – two side by side and the third underneath. He broke the seal and read the scroll. When he was done, he looked up at Delyla with a quizzical look on his face.

“It’s from Hintz, alright. He wants to speak with me at my earliest convenience. What could he want?”

“I have no idea.”

“And you said this came last night?”

Delyla nodded.

“I haven’t even been in town for twenty-four hours yet. How does this guy even know who I am, much less where I’m staying?”

“I told you, Geralt, there are no secrets in this palace.”

He nodded, a grim look on his face. “Except for one – just who’s behind the killings.”

oOo

The witcher knocked on the door to Birke’s private quarters, and when the captain opened his door, Geralt thought the man looked like hell – even worse than he’d looked yesterday. His face was incredibly pale, and the bags under his eyes were darker and bigger than before. Neither his hair nor mustache were waxed, and he had a sheen of sweat on his face.

“Witcher?” he asked in a raspy voice, and then he coughed.

“Sir Alyn, do I need to get Doctor Dermitt? You don’t look well.”

“No, no, witcher. I’m fine. Now, how can I help you? I assume that you’re here for a reason.”

“Well, I didn’t see you at dinner last night when I updated the king on my findings so I just thought you might want to know what I’ve discovered so far.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the captain, nodding. “Please come in.”

Geralt walked into a bedchamber that looked much like his, except that it was completely devoid of anything that could be even remotely called ostentatious. The bed and all of the furniture were quite spartan. There were no fluffy pillows, colorful bedspreads, or anything of the like. The room was no-nonsense – much like its occupant, thought the teen.

Sir Alyn directed Geralt to a chair by a small table, and as the witcher entered the room, he picked up a very familiar fragrance. It was unmistakable. The teen quickly scanned the room, checking for purple flowers in vases, but he didn’t see any – flowers or vases. Not that he was really expecting to. The captain of the royal guard did not seem the type to have flowers decorating his private quarters, and it wasn’t even the right time of year to have flowers, anyway.

The teen sat down in the chair, and he frowned – clearly unhappy with the suspicions that had just passed through his mind.

“So, what have you dug up?” asked Birke, bringing Geralt out of his thoughts.

Geralt summarized his and Doctor Dermitt’s findings regarding the bodies. He even disclosed to the captain his theories on what the monster might be – a golem or some cursed creature. At that point, the captain had several questions, especially about magic and curses. Geralt answered those queries; however, he didn’t reveal to Sir Alyn what he’d discovered the previous evening regarding Rojet and Prince Mathias. Other than Delyla, Geralt didn’t trust a single person in the palace, and there were some cards that he was simply going to hold close to his chest until the time was right to play them. He did, though, tell Birke of his plans for the day.

“I’m going to stop by the Rivian embassy this morning. After the conversation with King Travid last night, I was planning on snooping around both embassies, but now, I don’t have to – at least not the Rivian one - since I’ve got an invitation. After that, I’m going to head out to the Dothan estate to talk to Prince Mathias. Just wanted you to know – you know, just in case I don’t make it back, then you’ll know who to go after.”

“Do you want an escort? I could spare a half-dozen guards to go with you?”

“No thanks,” answered Geralt. “I think they’d take away my witcher medallion if I asked for any baby-sitters.”

Sir Alyn nodded his head, and Geralt could swear that he saw a look of respect pass across the captain’s face.

“Alright,” said Birke. “Keep me informed.”

oOo

“I’m incredibly busy, witcher. So, what do you need?” asked the Crown Prince.

Roope was sitting behind a large, cluttered desk that was covered in an assortment of books and parchment. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows and his collar was open. Geralt glanced over the prince’s head and through the open doors of the second-floor balcony to see a spectacular view of the royal gardens and the Yaruga River, but, clearly, Roope had no time to bother with such mundane sights as he had his back to the balcony.

“Well, Your Highness, since you left dinner early last night, I didn’t get to inform you of my findings. I thought you might be interested.”

The prince sighed. “If you must, but make it quick.”

Geralt was confused. “I’m sorry – and please correct me if I’m mistaken – but are you _not_ concerned with the attacks on your mother and sister?”

The prince’s eyes went cold, and the muscles in his jaws bulged.

“That woman was not my mother,” he growled out. “My mother was a saint.”

The teen winced. 

“I apologize, Your Highness. I misspoke. I meant, your step-mother.”

“That bitch wasn’t my step-mother, either. She was simply my father’s wife. That’s it. And, of course, I’m concerned about the attacks. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have sent my wife and daughters to Angren to stay with her parents.”

“Well, it just seems like you’re not that interested.”

The prince spread his hands out toward the table.

“As you can see, witcher, I actually have a kingdom to run.”

A confused look passed across the teen’s face.

“Yes, that’s right. _I_ run the kingdom. You didn’t actually think my lush of a father did, did you? If so, then I don’t have a lot of confidence in you catching this monster – not if that’s any indication of your observational skills. And let me clue you into something - the needs of the kingdom stop for nothing and no one – not even some monster attacks in the palace.”

The prince’s remark about his ‘lush of a father’ made Geralt remember their fight the night before at dinner.

“Last night, you told the king that his – ‘profligacy,’ I think was the term you used – was going to bankrupt the kingdom. Are the anisetz mines going dry, Your Highness?”

Roope’s jaws bulged again.

“I don’t see how that’s any bloody business of yours, witcher. Unless you think the mines have something to do with the attacks.”

Geralt shook his head.

“No? Then, if there’s nothing else, shut the door on your way out.”

Without even waiting for a reply, the prince looked down and began skimming through some papers in front of him. This time it was the witcher who clenched his jaws. He’d had just about enough of this asshole’s attitude. Right then and there, he thought, _‘I hope this prick’s behind the killings because I want to take him down.’_

Instead, he said, “Your Highness,” and gave a slight nod of his head before leaving the study.

As he walked down the hall, his anger boiling below the surface, he thought to himself, _‘Okay, Geralt, let’s start digging into this dickhead’s business.’_

oOo

“Are you sure that you wouldn’t like some lunch, Geralt – may I call you Geralt?”

“Yes, you may. And, no. No, thank you. I had a big breakfast this morning.”

Ambassador Hintz sat on an upper-floor balcony of the Rivian embassy that had a view of the Yaruga River and the Tir Torchair Mountains. To Geralt, the man looked quite distinguished. His clothes were impeccable, his salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, and his short hair was tinged with gray at the temples. He exuded an air of calmness and wisdom. 

“I was surprised by your invitation, Ambassador. Especially considering that it was delivered last night. At that point, I’d only been working for the king a handful of hours.”

Hintz finished swallowing, gave a knowing smile, and meticulously wiped his mouth with his napkin. 

“Well, it’s part of my job description to know things, Geralt. I am Temeria’s representative here in Dothan, and it’s my duty to advise King Calvert on all things related to this little kingdom. Thus, I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

_‘Everybody knows everybody’s secrets,’_ the teen recalled Delyla saying. _‘And rumors travel faster than the wind.’_

Geralt suddenly felt very wary of the man. But, then again, if Hintz knew as much as he let on, then maybe he could glean some valuable information from the ambassador. The witcher knew that he’d have to walk a thin line.

“That makes sense,” replied Geralt with a nod, but he said nothing else. 

The ambassador didn’t speak either for the longest time, so the two of them just looked at each other across the table. That was fine with Geralt. If he’d learned anything at Kaer Morhen it was to keep silent unless asked a direct question. Plus, the ambassador had asked for this meeting. The witcher figured that he’d let Hintz do the talking. Eventually, the teen broke his gaze and looked out over the city below and towards the river and mountains to the south. When he looked back at Hintz, he saw a small smile on the ambassador’s face. Finally, the older man cleared his throat.

“You may be wondering, Geralt, why I wished to speak with you.”

Geralt gave a small shrug. “Not really. I mean, why does anyone ever want to talk with a witcher? It must have something to do with monsters.”

The teen saw the ambassador smile again. He was clearly enjoying himself.

“In a manner of speaking, yes, you are correct. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I am aware of the monster attacks at the Anisberg palace.”

“Eyes and ears everywhere, right?”

“Indeed. So, I would love to hear how you are progressing in your search for this beast.”

The witcher slowly shook his head.

“Witchers can’t discuss details of a contract with anyone but the contract giver. I mean, otherwise, people might actually start to _mistrust_ us. Then, they might even start trying to _cheat_ us. We can’t have that.”

Hintz gave a small chuckle.

“A witcher with a sense of humor. I like it. And I understand your stance. I actually appreciate your discretion. It’s so rare these days. So, then, let me ask you a hypothetical question. You can answer hypotheticals, can’t you, Geralt?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Fantastic. I like hypotheticals. They allow for plausible deniability. So, let’s say that there is a young witcher who has taken on a contract to find a monster. And, let’s say, that he’s been offered…oh, I don’t know…five-hundred Dothan crowns to kill the beast.”

At that, Geralt narrowed his eyes. _‘How in the hell can he know that?’_

“The question is this - is there ever a scenario where the witcher would cancel said contract? Or, would that violate some witcher code…by causing _distrust_ in your clientele?”

“ _Cancel_ a contract,” the witcher repeated and stared hard at the ambassador. “I won’t say ‘never,’ but it would be a pretty rare situation. There’d have to some very strange circumstances.”

“Even if say – the contract giver lied to you? And he was actually behind the murders – not the poor, innocent monster?”

_‘What the hell? What does he know?’_ wondered Geralt. He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking.

“Lies, truth, morality – witchers aren’t supposed to care about any of that,” the teen answered, parroting the training he’d received time and time again at Kaer Morhen. “We’re not knights, judges, constables, or priests. We just kill monsters for coin. That’s it.”

“So, it’s _money_ that motivates you – I mean, that motivates witchers? We are still speaking hypothetically.”

“Well, money _is_ the second part of the equation.”

“So, then, would a witcher take money _not_ to kill a monster? Let’s say, a _thousand_ Dothan crowns?”

Geralt stared at the man but couldn’t read anything in his face.

“Why would someone – hypothetically speaking – pay that much money to let a monster roam free?”

“There could be a number of reasons,” answered Hintz. “But they’re essentially unimportant, right? As you said, witchers aren’t concerned with morality or, I’m assuming, motives. So, your answer?”

The teen stared deeply into the older man’s eyes.

“Ambassador Hintz, I won’t speak for any other witcher. There, indeed, may be some – even many - who would take your money and simply ride out of town. But I won’t. Because I gave my word to King Travid, and, while I _can_ be hired, I won’t be bought. I still believe that things like honor and integrity count for something. Now, if you’ll excuse, I’ve got a monster to find.”

oOo

Geralt rode his borrowed horse out of the city and headed east toward the anisetz mines. On his way, he thought back over his discussion with the Rivian ambassador. Geralt may have been a teenager, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew a bribe when he heard one. The question was _why_ did Hintz want Geralt to cease his investigation and pursuit of the monster. The bribe didn’t necessarily mean that Hintz was actually behind the attacks, but it did cause the witcher to be highly dubious of the man’s intentions. It looked like King Travid may have been at least partially correct, after all. The ambassador clearly didn’t have Travid’s or Dothan’s best interest in mind, and that was something upon which to ponder.

Dealing with the smooth ambassador had almost made Geralt forget his promise to himself that morning after leaving Roope’s office – the promise to start looking more closely into that whoreson’s business. Almost – but not quite – and that’s why he was heading for the mines.

After leaving the outskirts of Anisberg, he only rode for a couple of miles when he saw a tall and expansive, wooden palisade stretching out for a mile or more to both his left and right. There were royal guards all along the top of the battlements. He flicked his reins and shortly came to a heavy, closed gate that, too, was heavily guarded. He withdrew the king’s special decree from the inner pocket of his gambeson, handed it to the nearest guard, and said that he’d like to speak with whomever was in charge of the mines.

“That would be Iesner Vazney – the foreman,” replied the guard. “I’ll show you to his office.”

A few minutes later, the witcher was introduced to Vazney. He’d never met or even seen a dwarf in real life, but he could remember his mother describing them in some of her bedtime fairy-tales. And Vazney followed the stereotype to the letter. He was short, burly, bearded, and loud. And he had a thick, dwarven accent to top it all off.

After looking at the king’s decree and handing it back to the witcher, he asked, “Whit cannae dae fer ya?”

“I’ve got a few questions about the mines.”

“Noo, whit dae tha mines hafta dae with witcher’s work?” He then whispered. “Ah dinnae ken naught aboot monsters, laddie.”  
  


“That may be true, Mr. Vasney, but-”

“Oof, laddie, call me Iesner.”

“Okay, Iesner. I just want to know if the anisetz mines are running dry?”

The dwarf’s eyes went wide, and he suddenly began looking around the room. He quickly hopped off of his chair and ran to the windows of his hut, slamming the shutters closed.

“Are ya aff yer heid, laddie,” he whispered. “Ah cannae answer that. The prince would have me bahookey. Those’re secrets of the monarchy.”

“I understand that, Iesner. I really do. And I understand that that kind of information is sensitive and needs to be protected.” He then withdrew again the decree from the king. “But, remember, I am working directly for King Travid. And I don’t know much about royal courts, but…I’m pretty sure that a king outranks a prince – even the crown prince.”

“Oof, noo ah ken what it feels like to have me pickle inna grinder. A’right, a’right. I’ll tell ya…jus promise me you’ll keep yer geggie shut.”

“I can’t promise you that, Iesner,” said the teen. “But, if what you tell me has nothing to do with what I’m working on, then I’ll keep quiet. I can promise that.”

With that assurance, Vazney went on to tell him about the current status of the three anisetz mines. ‘Lulabell,’ the oldest of the three, hadn’t yielded any anisetz stones in several months, and ‘Pidget’s’ production had reduced by half in the last six. The third mine, ‘Clementine’ was the only one of the three that hadn’t dropped off in any way. Iesner informed Geralt that Prince Roope was very aware of the current status, and that about two months past, Roope had Iesner start surveying other parts of the kingdom for possible anisetz ‘veins.’ According to the dwarf, Roope had tasked Rojet with crafting a magical device that could help detect the presence of anisetz stones in the ground, and it had worked fantastically. 

“So, you found a location to start a new mine?”

“Aye, ah did.”

“Where?”

Iesner leaned forward on his stool, quickly looked left and right, and whispered, “The land ‘round the Lebioda temple.”

Ten minutes later, Geralt left the mines and mounted his horse. He glanced up at the location of the sun and realized that it was already mid-afternoon. Just where had the morning and afternoon gone? He had started the day with one goal in mind – to visit the Dothan country estate to speak with Prince Mathias – but he kept getting side-tracked. It seemed that, with everyone he spoke to, he’d find a new, suspicious trail to follow. He exhaled deeply and nodded his head. He still wanted to speak with Mathias. That took priority. If there was any time in the day after that, then he’d head to the temple of Lebioda afterwards. If not, then he’d visit there tomorrow. With his decision made, he flicked the horse’s reins and headed north of the city.

oOo

“So, why are you here, exactly, young witcher?” Prince Mathias calmly asked.

Geralt was sitting in the expansive study of the Dothan country estate, and across from him was King Travid’s younger brother. It was very clear to the witcher just where Princess Camilla had gotten her incredible beauty. The teen had asked Birke a few questions about the prince before leaving the palace that morning, and so he knew that Mathias was in his late thirties, but he easily looked ten years younger. He had clear eyes, a lean face, a strong jaw, and thick, wavy hair – all of the qualities that his older brother lacked. In fact, when Geralt had first met the man face-to-face, he’d thought, _‘Now, this is what a king is supposed to look like.’_

“As I told your guards at the gate, King Travid has hired me to catch the monster, and, since the trail is very cold, I’m just going around talking to everyone I can. If you don’t mind, I’ve got just a few questions for you.”

“You think I know something about this monster?” he asked.

“Do you?”

“No. Nothing at all.”

“Do you know why a monster – or _anyone_ for that matter – would want to kill your former wife?”

The prince slightly narrowed his eyes at the teen.

“Ah, so that’s it, is it? A husband has been scorned, so he bides his time, and when the moment is ripe, he strikes – or in my case – hires some beast to strike the adulterous woman. That’s your theory?” Before Geralt could answer, Prince Mathias continued. “I won’t lie to you – Geralt, was it? Not that it’s really any of your concern, but I’ll freely tell you that Elize and I had a loveless marriage. But that shouldn’t surprise. Like almost all royal marriages, it was born of political machinations. But I didn’t hate the woman – even though she could be hateful. I didn’t really have feelings about her one way or the other, and certainly not enough to want her dead. In fact, when she told me that she was marrying my brother, I was relieved that she was finally out of my life.” Then, the prince’s face turned hard. “And I _loved_ my daughter. And I will do _everything_ in my power to have her killer found. So, don’t you dare insult me by even _implying_ that I had anything to do with her death.”

Geralt had just met the prince, but the witcher believed him. His protestations rung true for the teen. It was either that, or the prince was the greatest liar that he’d ever come across. However, that still didn’t explain the connection between him and Rojet.

The witcher nodded his head and said, “Okay. I believe you.”

Instantly, the prince’s face softened and a small smile came to his lips.

“Well, that’s…that’s good,” said the prince, relief clear in his voice. “I don’t know why it should matter – I don’t even know you – but, the thought of anyone thinking that I could harm, much less kill, my own daughter…well, that just sets me on edge.”

“I can understand that,” said Geralt in a low voice. “Killing your own flesh-and-blood, that’s…that’s about as low as one can get. And I apologize, Your Highness. I honestly didn’t mean to insinuate that you had anything to do with your daughter’s death.”

“It’s quite alright,” the prince said with a disarming smile. “Do you have other questions, or did you come out all this way, just for that?”

“Yeah, I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Your Highness.”

Mathias looked a little perturbed, but he quickly recovered and flashed a small smile again.

“Well, by all means. You are here on the king’s behalf.”

“What would it take for you to become the king of Dothan?”

“I’m sorry?”

The prince looked shocked by the question.

“For _you_ to become king – what would have to happen?”

“Well, uh, King Travid…and all his male descendants would have to…cease to live.”

Geralt nodded.

“Die, you mean. So, if King Travid, the Crown Prince, and Nigel all died, then you’d be next in line? Or am I missing someone?”

“Actually, Nigel is not part of Travid’s line.”

Geralt furrowed his brows. “But I saw the two of them yesterday. Nigel called him, ‘Papa.’”

“Maybe so, but _officially_ , he’s my son. He was born to Elize when she and I were still married and while Travid was still married to Oleyna. So…”

Geralt’s eyes widened slightly at that revelation. Just how twisted were the branches of this family tree?

Mathias swallowed. “I must confess, witcher, this line of questioning is unsettling. What exactly are you getting at?”

The teen didn’t answer straight away. He was still trying to process this new information about Nigel and wondering if it played any factor into the giant puzzle that he was trying to piece together. Eventually, he looked up at Mathias.

“I’m not saying anything, Your Highness. I’m just tossing around ideas. That’s all. And one of them is – what if someone wanted you to be king of Dothan?”

“But I…I have absolutely no desire to be king.”

“I didn’t say that you did. But what if someone else does? Someone close to you. And what if that someone can control a monster? Like I said, I don’t know anything for sure. I’m just guessing here, but what if Elize and Camilla’s deaths were just…window-dressing? That they weren’t the real targets? Or, if they were, then, at least, they aren’t the final targets?”

Geralt could see the Prince getting visibly upset.

“Just say what you want to say, witcher.”

“Okay. I’ve got this theory, and right now, that’s all it is. But I think the monster is either a golem or the result of a very powerful curse. If you want to know why, we can get into that. But, either way, a sorcerer is involved. So, just how well do you know Rojet, Your Highness?” 

Mathia’s eyes suddenly went wide.

“Rojet?”

“Yes. King Travid’s mage-advisor.”

“Well, I…I know the man, of course, just like…I know most everyone at the palace.”

“But, that’s it? You two are just passing acquaintances?”  
  


“Yes, that’s all.”

While Geralt had believed the prince earlier when he’d protested his innocence regarding Camilla’s death, it was clear that Mathias was lying now. Even if Geralt hadn’t seen the two together the night before, it would have been obvious.

Geralt sighed. “Your Highness, I know about the cabin in the woods. I know you meet Rojet there. In fact, I saw the two of you there last night. The question is – why are you lying to me?”

Mathia’s eyes went wide again.

“Please, witcher, you…you can’t say anything to anyone. I beg you.”

What had been shock on the prince’s face was now full-blown fear.

“Who…who have you told about this?” Mathias asked.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at that. He didn’t like the implications of that question at all. If he said, ‘No one,’ then how would the prince react? Would he suddenly call in a dozen guards and order the witcher’s quick execution? Even with Travid’s royal decree in hand, Geralt was pretty sure who the estate’s guards would side with. Thus, he decided to bluff.

“About seeing you two together last night? I only told King Travid and Captain Birke,” he lied.

Mathias had been staring into Geralt’s face, but upon hearing that answer, his eyes fell away from the witcher’s, and he slumped back into his chair. To the teen, it looked as if the life had just drained out of him. He stared at the prince and was, suddenly, concerned for the man.

“Your Highness, are you alright?”

The prince didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor for the longest time. Eventually, he lifted his eyes to Geralt’s but only for a second. He looked away again, sighed, and slowly got up from his chair. He walked over to a cart and poured himself a large glass of a dark-brown alcohol, which Geralt figured was whiskey. The witcher stared at the prince’s back as he took a long sip from his glass.

“You can show yourself out now, witcher,” said the prince, not even bothering to turn around.


	7. Chapter 7

_Kaer Morhen – 1187_

“Here at Kaer Morhen, we are committed to transforming you into witchers,” said Master Elgar. “But not just any witcher. You are _all_ to be witchers from the School of the Wolf. Now, I’m fully aware that, at times, you may have your differences. Believe it or not, I can still recall my time here as a boy…well over two centuries ago. I understand that there will be fights. That’s natural…that’s normal. But, regardless of whatever animosity you may feel towards one another, never forget this – you are _all_ from the same pack. And wolves from the same pack are _never_ to turn on their own. They are never to kill their own.”

Geralt stood in the middle of roughly two dozen youth – about equal numbers of fodder and velpen. They were assembled together in front of one of the training areas near the keep, and above them on a walkway stood the school’s leader. To both sides of Master Elgar were the rest of the witcher cadre. Down below, on ground level, was a shirtless Eugene. The boy was strung up – his arms tied above his head to a railing - with his back exposed. Even from a distance, Geralt could hear his friend sniffling.

Once Geralt had calmed Eugene down enough to stop beating on Reisel and Farkus in the stables, they had immediately fled the school. Geralt knew it was a death sentence for the two, untrained, unarmed boys to leave the safety of Kaer Morhen and head into the monster-infested mountains, but, at that point, he was more afraid of what might happen to Eugene if they stayed.

They never encountered any monsters, though. Before that could happen, the two had been quickly tracked down by the master witchers. With blood still dripping from Geralt’s nose, their trail hadn’t been difficult to follow.

Back at the keep, inside the great hall, Master Elgar had questioned the two boys separately about the incident in the barn. After an hour, Geralt was sent away. He headed back to the barn but sleep never came. At dawn, the fodder and velpen assembled in front of the barracks as usual, but instead of heading off to their respective physical training sessions, they were all brought before the school’s eldest member.

“I repeat,” stated Master Elgar as he glared down at the youth, “we will _not_ tolerate you killing one of your own. Here at Kaer Morhen, our code states ‘A life for a life.’ However, after hearing from everyone involved in last night’s incident, it is my decision that there was no premeditation involved in the killing. That said, it is also my determination that the fodder’s death was entirely avoidable. Therefore, the fodder you see below you is culpable, and he will suffer consequences for his actions.”

Master Elgar turned to his right and said, “Master Kalen.”

The one-eyed witcher descended the nearby stairs, stopped fifteen feet away from Eugene, and motioned his right arm out to his side, uncoiling a long whip. A second later, he took a step and snapped his arm forward. A loud crack echoed off the stone walls, and Eugene howled as his back was split open.

Geralt clenched his jaws and balled his hands as tightly as possible as he watched his friend’s flesh ripped apart. His body was trembling and he could feel the tears in his eyes, but he’d be damned if he’d actually start crying - not now. He glared at both Master Elgar and Kalen, and though the elder wore a completely stoic mask, Geralt swore he could see the slightest of smiles on Kalen’s lips.

After the third lashing, Eugene’s legs gave out, and he just hung there – his limp body only held up by the rope around his wrists. Eventually, the punishment ceased, and Kalen slowly coiled the whip. Nobody said a word. The only noise that could be heard was faint whimpering coming from Eugene. The chief mage, Hieronymus, and two other cadre members approached the boy. They cut his bonds and placed him face-down on a stretcher before slowly carrying him off towards the castle.

Once he was out of sight, Master Elgar cleared his throat, bringing everyone’s eyes and attention back toward him.

“Let this be a lesson to you all. We spend countless hours, resources, and energy training you…molding you into witchers,” said Elgar, his dark eyes boring into those of the boys below. “And we will not tolerate having our efforts wasted by you lot killing one another. Have I made myself understood?”

“Yes, Master Elgar!” came a unison of voices.

The eldest witcher nodded his head.

“Then, you are dismissed. Proceed with your morning training.”

“Yes, Master Elgar!”

Geralt stood still for a moment, waiting for those around him to start towards the assembly area. He then turned around and immediately bumped into a fellow fodder. When he looked up and saw who it was, he instantly took a step back. He was peering into the battered, disfigured face of Reisel. He was almost unrecognizable – his entire face swollen and bruised. One eye appeared to be completely shut.

The bigger boy leaned down slightly.

“I don’t care what the old man said, Piss Boy,” he mumbled in a whisper. “You’re dead. You hear me? Dead.”

Then, Geralt noticed that his face changed. He realized that Reisel was trying to smile, though it certainly didn’t look like one.

“You and that retard will never leave this place alive. But it won’t be soon. I’m gonna make you wait. It’s gonna come just when you least expect it.”

He gave another gruesome smile and then walked away.

oOo

It was over a week before Eugene walked into Geralt’s stall in the stables. Upon seeing his friend, the big kid began to cry, ran towards Geralt and wrapped him in a hug.

“Why did they whip me, Geralt? It were an accident…so why did they do that?”

Geralt didn’t bother to answer. He just patted his friend on the shoulder until he finally calmed down. They then sat down, and Marmalade crept over to Eugene and began rubbing his head against the sorrowful youth. A sad smile broke out on the kid’s face.

“You’s a good cat,” he said as he scratched him behind the ears.

“I thought you had died, Eugene. When I didn’t see you the next day, I thought…”

“I thought I was gonna die, too. My whole back was on fire. I never been in pain like that. That was worse than any beating my pa ever gave me. The master mage - I can’t say his name – he put all kinds of salves and bandages on my back and made me drink these foul-tastin’ potions. But I guess it all worked cause…I’s still alive.”

Eugene glanced briefly down at Marmalade. When he looked back up, Geralt could see confusion in his sad eyes.

“But I don’t understand, Geralt…why they whipped me,” Eugene said. “It were an accident. I…I didn’t mean to kill that boy. I’s only trying to make them two stop hurtin’ ya. I thought they was gonna kill ya.”

“I told you this place wasn’t fair, Eugene. Now you see.”

The big kid just nodded his head.

“But that’s not the only problem we got.”

Geralt then went on to tell Eugene about Reisel’s threats.

“Do…do you think he’ll really try and kill us?”

The little boy nodded.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then…what are we gonna do? We gonna tell Master Kalen or Master Elgar?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “They wouldn’t do a damn thing.”

“Then, what are we gonna do?”

“We gotta stay together, Eugene. Do you hear me? Me and you…we can’t ever be by ourselves. We gotta stay together…as much as possible.”

“Okay, Geralt. That sounds good to me.”

“I’ve been thinking about this. From now on, you gotta sleep down here instead of in the barracks.”

He glanced upward, toward the rafters high in the barn.

“And I got an idea.”

He dropped his gaze and stared into his friend’s eyes as he clenched his jaws.

“But, no matter what…we’re not gonna let them win.”

“Huh? Win? Win what? I don’t understand. Who you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“All of ‘em, Eugene. All of ‘em. Reisel, Kalen, Elgar, and anybody else who tries to beat us down. We’re gonna get out of here, Eugene. Me and you. One day. Do you hear me? One day…we’re gonna leave here and never come back. All we gotta do is…just survive. One day at a time. You understand me now?”

Eugene nodded.

“Uh huh.”

“We just gotta focus on surviving - today. And tomorrow…we’ll focus on surviving then. But we can do it. Do you trust me?”

“Yeah, Geralt. ‘Course I do.”

“Good. Then, let’s get to work.”

oOo

It took the boys over a month, but they eventually finished constructing a platform high up in the rafters of the stables. The platform - which was big enough to accommodate them both – was made from dozens of tree limbs and branches that they’d collected by scouring the terrain just outside of Kaer Morhen’s walls. The job was slow-going for several reasons. First, they could only hunt for wood at night, after they’d completed their chores. Then, after gathering all the timber that they needed, they had to somehow get it up into the rafters. Fortunately, they had found a long coil of rope in the storage room of the barn, and Geralt tied one end the rope around a large stone. He had Eugene toss the rock - and the rope – over one of the crossbeams. After that, while Eugene held one end of the rope, Geralt climbed up the other. Once he was situated up in the rafters, the two began to use the rope as a pulley, lifting each branch into the rafters one at a time. Along with the rope, they’d found a lot of twine in the barn, and they used it to tie the limbs tightly together and secured to the crossbeams. The boys covered their living quarters with hay, and, afterward, they laid down several horse blankets for padding. They kept the long length of rope tied to a nearby beam in order to access the platform, and for security purposes, they always pulled the rope up behind them to eliminate any unexpected and unwanted visitors. With the rope pulled up, no one could get to them – well, except for Marmalade. He had no need of the rope since he could easily traverse the rafters to their new home. They were fine with that, of course, but he was their only welcomed guest.

The first night that the platform was finally finished, the two boys had only been lying down on their pallets for just a few minutes when Eugene spoke in the darkness.

“Geralt?”

The little boy turned over and looked at his friend. Enough moonlight was coming through the slats of the barn roof that he could make out the silhouette of Eugene’s head.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“This was a good idea. I feel better now.”

Geralt nodded his head. He thought he knew what his friend meant because he felt the same. But he asked anyway.

“How so?”

“I been havin’ fitful sleep for the last month. Tossin’ and turnin’…wonderin’ if Reisel was sneakin’ up on us in the dark. But I feel safer up here.”

“That’s good, Eugene. I’m glad. But this is just the start. I got some other ideas on how to defend ourselves.”

“That right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re gonna make it, Eugene. We’re gonna get back to the real world.”

“That does sound nice ‘cause…this ain’t my favorite place.”

Geralt couldn’t help himself, and a small laugh escaped his throat.

“No, Eugene, I can’t imagine that it is. It’s not mine, either.”

He laughed for a few seconds more, and suddenly, something dawned on him. That was the first time he’d laughed in…he couldn’t remember when. It had to be years, he thought. He recalled that he used to laugh a lot, back in the ‘civilized’ world, back with his mother. And with her memory, his smile slowly faded from his face.

“When we get out of here, who’s the first person you want to find?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy. My big sister, Milka.”

“Not your parents? Not your mom?”

Eugene hesitated for a moment.

“Nah. They…they didn’t…well, Milka was always real nice to me. She’s the one that made me my necklace.”

Geralt had noticed the necklace before but had never asked about it. It was just a small, wooden pendant that looked to be handmade, and it was connected to a simple, leather string. The pendant appeared to be made of two, thin, curved twigs. The points of the two twigs connected together at one end while the other ends crisscrossed.

“Yeah? You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that pendant. Is it supposed to mean something?”

“Well, yeah. It’s a fish,” he answered, pulling it out from underneath his shirt. “See? If I turns it sideways…you can see. This side here is the head, and that’s the tail.”

“Oh, yeah…sure, now I see it. But…why a fish?”

“Well…’cause…it’s…it’s what everybody back home used to call me.”

“Really? They called you ‘Fish?’”

“Nah, they…well, I tolds ya my name’s Eugene…and it is, but…back home…everybody calls me Roach.”

“What? Like a cockroach?”

“Nah, like the fish.”

“A roach fish?”

Eugene nodded and asked, “You ain’t spent much time in Hengfors, has ya?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Well, over there, we gots these fish called roaches. They’s in all the rivers and ponds and such.”

“And that’s your nickname?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, but why?”

Geralt heard his friend let out a sigh.

“Well…roaches…they’s these little silver, gray fish. They’s real bony with hardly any meat…so they ain’t good for eatin’ at all. But they’s also a lot of ‘em so every time you go fishin’, they end up takin’ your bait instead something good like a crappie or a bass.”

“Okay, but I still don’t understand how you got that nickname.”

“Well…they…back home, they’s considered good for nothing. Just a nuisance…takin’ up space in the lakes and such so…”

“Oh,” said Geralt softly. He then furrowed his brows. “And everybody calls you this – even your family?”

Eugene nodded.

“Yeah…my pa…he’s the one that first started callin’ me that.”

“So, your sister made you a pendant to remind you that you’re…? I thought you said she was nice to you.”

“Oh, no, she is. She is. When she made me the necklace, she said that maybe it were true that a roach weren’t no good for eating, but that aint’ mean he was worthless. She said that God made that fish and God don’t make no mistakes. They was a reason he made roaches the way they is…even if we didn’t know the reason. That they had some special purpose…just like all God’s creatures. And then she gave me the pendant. I ain’t taken it off since.”

A memory flashed through Geralt’s mind. A memory of another pendant – a brooch in the shape of a butterfly. But he didn’t linger on it. Instead, he smiled and said, “You’re right. She does sound like a real nice sister. I look forward to meeting her one day.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll be great. Y’all will get along like honey and cornbread.”

Geralt smiled again.

“That sounds good. So, do you want me to start calling you ‘Roach?’”

“Nah…I likes you callin’ me Eugene.”

“Okay.”

“It’s lots better than ‘retard,’ or ‘boy,’ or ‘you.’”

Geralt nodded.

“Geralt, why don’t the master witchers call us by our names? I knows they know it. They asked me my name the first night I was here. But they don’t ever say it. Half the times, I get confused on which ‘boy’ they’s talkin’ to. ‘Hey, boy, come here. Hey, boy, answer this.’ Is they talkin’ to me or you or some other boy? Do you know why they do that? It’s confusin’.”

“I don’t, Eugene. It’s probably for the same reason that they do anything. Because they’re jerks.”

“Oh…okay. I just thought maybe you knew.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then Eugene spoke again.

“What ‘bout you, Geralt? Do you have someone ya wants to see when we get outta here?”

Geralt hesitated.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Watcha mean you don’t know?”

“Well…I’d like to see my mama again, but…I don’t know if she’s alive or not.”

“Oh…I’s sorry, Geralt. I didn’t know.”

“Last time I saw her, she…she was alive, but she was lying on the ground, in the middle of the woods…covered in blood. So, I just…I just don’t know.”

“Oh my…what happened to her?”

Geralt looked down and swallowed.

“I…I killed her.”

“Ya killed your ma?” Eugene asked, his eyes wide.

Geralt nodded but still wouldn’t look up. He couldn’t look Eugene in the eye.

“It was an accident. But, yeah…if she’s dead, then it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

oOo

Time moved fast for the two nearly-inseparable friends, who took their meals together, walked to their morning training together, bunked together, and at night before bed, spent at least an hour reviewing that day’s lessons. In truth, Geralt didn’t need the review, but Eugene surely did, and Geralt actually enjoyed helping his friend.

During that time, Reisel never made a move against them or even approached them, but his glares were a constant, everyday occurrence. Eventually, though, as days turned to weeks, the blonde fodder’s threats ceased to always be at the forefront of their minds. They simply had other things to think about.

In the late spring, Eugene was given a great surprise when the two mares finally foaled within a couple of weeks of each other. They were the seventh and eighth foals that Geralt had seen being birthed so he explained to Eugene everything he knew about the process and the aftermath.

“It’s all legs,” said Eugene one night, from just outside of Clarissa’s stall. “It looks more like a deer than a horse. And I can’t believe it’s already walkin’. It were born just this mornin’.”

Geralt nodded his head as he watched the foal nursing off of Clarissa.

“Yastic says that horses are prey animals – susceptible to all kinds of predators. Wolves, panthers, wild dogs. And that’s just from the animal kingdom. Doesn’t even count the monsters that would eat them. He said they travel in herds, for protection. So, the foal has to be able to run within twenty-four hours of being born or it’ll get left behind. If it can’t stand and run within a day of being born…well, that’s a death sentence.”

“They’s so small and defenseless. Without they’s mamas, they wouldn’t stand a chance, would they?”

Geralt, still watching the foal, nodded again.

“Yeah…it’s a miracle – or just blind luck - that any of them make it.”

oOo

The spring changed to summer, which naturally turned to fall, but there was one constant throughout the seasons – every night, Eugene was with one or both of the foals. He never got tired of brushing them, playing with them in the corral, or just watching them sleep. And he always had an infectious smile on his face whenever he was around them. Just seeing his friend in such good spirits caused even Geralt to smile and laugh - more than he had in all of his years at the witcher school.

But, as the weather began to cool, Geralt found that the smiles no longer came to his face quite so easily. He knew that the Trial of Grasses was approaching fast. In the past, he’d always had mixed – but mostly positive - feelings about the Trials. On one hand – with all the fodder out of the barracks – he was back on the piss-and-shit bucket detail, and he’d have to remain on that noxious duty for several weeks until the newest fodder arrived – usually at the beginning of winter when the witchers returned to the keep for the snowy season. On the other hand, his days were – dare he say - almost relaxing. Obviously, there were no fodder around to pick on him, and since Master Kalen was, apparently, needed on hand for the administration of the Trials, that meant that Geralt was also free of the scarred witcher’s torment. Thus, once he completed his chores for Yastic, he’d always had the rest of his days to spend however he liked, and that was something he relished - not having people constantly picking at him. However, this year was different. He wasn’t looking forward to the Trials at all. For, this year, Eugene would be going through them.

Finally, the morning arrived that the two boys were dreading. They woke, as usual, before sun-up and began making their way towards the assembly area in front of the barracks. But as they were leaving the stables, Eugene spoke up.

“Wait, Geralt.”

“What is it?” said the little boy, stopping and turning around.

“I…I wants you to have this,” said Eugene, and he reached underneath the collar of his coat and pulled his necklace over his head. He held the wooden pendant in his hand and extended it towards his friend.

Geralt didn’t say anything at first. He just narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head.

“Ya know…just in case I don’t make it.”

Hearing that, Geralt shook his head more resolutely.

“No. No, Eugene,” he said, taking a step backwards. “You…you need to keep it. You should hold onto it…hold it tight and think of Milka. That’ll help you get through it, okay? Just think of her…of seeing your sister again once we get out of here. That’s our plan, remember?”

Eugene stared into Geralt’s eyes for a long while and then slowly nodded his head.

“Okay. I’ll do whatcha say, Geralt. You never steered me wrong.”

He put the necklace back over his head, and when he looked back up, he had a sad smile on his face – a smile that matched his eyes. Eyes that were filling with tears. He then wrapped Geralt in one of his big hugs.

“You my best friend…you know that?”

Geralt couldn’t say anything so he just nodded. Finally, he found his voice.

“You’re my best friend, too. But…this isn’t good-bye, okay? I’ll see you when this is all over. We’re gonna make it, Eugene. You hear me? Nothing – not even the Trials – will stop us.”

The two stepped apart, and Eugene nodded his head.

“Okay.”

“Okay…now, we’d better get moving. Last thing we need is Kalen on our butts.”

That conversation had taken place over a week past. During that time – unlike in years past - Geralt hadn’t been able to relax. Every waking moment – and even some of his sleeping ones – were filled with concern over Eugene. So, that first night alone, the little boy did something that he hadn’t tried in years. He prayed.

When he’d been very young – still living with his mother – he’d asked her once if God existed. She’d told him that she didn’t know, but that he was free to believe whatever he wanted – whatever made him feel better. And he didn’t know why, but for some reason, believing in God had make him feel better. He just felt safer, more secure thinking that there was a God somewhere up above looking down on him. So, after he was brought to Kaer Morhen, he had prayed every night to God – prayed that his mother would one day come knocking on the front gates of the fortress and take him back home. But no matter how earnestly he prayed, it never happened, and after about a year with no results, the little boy had simply given up. He had finally concluded that there was no God after all. He couldn’t have explained why, but that idea – that God didn’t exist - seemed to give him slightly more comfort than believing that God actually was up above but that he simply didn’t listen. Thus, Geralt had never prayed again. But Eugene had prayed – a lot.

Eugene trusted his big sister implicitly for she had been the only person who had ever loved him and accepted him, and since she believed that God existed, then that meant that Eugene did, too. And throughout the boys’ months of friendship, while they never specifically spoke about the existence of God, whenever Eugene did mention God, there never seemed to be any doubt in the boy’s mind about whether or not God truly was real. And every night, before going to sleep, Geralt would hear Eugene pray – pray that God would watch over his sister Milka, his best friend, Geralt, and Geralt’s mother – wherever she may be.

Now, up on their platform, alone for the first time in months, Geralt tried to fall asleep, but rest just wouldn’t come. He couldn’t ease his mind. Worry for his friend consumed him. And, then, Eugene’s nighttime prayers crossed his mind. He still wasn’t sure if God existed or not, but he thought that maybe Eugene and Milka knew something that he didn’t. Or, maybe he’d been praying the wrong way that first year at Kaer Morhen and that’s why God had never answered his prayers. Whatever the reason, the little boy suddenly found himself talking to the great unknown high up in the sky, and for the next week, Geralt continued his friend’s habit, praying every night after laying his head down to sleep.

On the eighth evening, Geralt was, as usual, in the stables, in one of the stalls. He – with Marmalade’s supervision - had just finished bringing the foals in from the corral and was about to head up to his platform when he heard a voice coming from near the front door of the barn.

“Boy!” barked a commanding voice.

He didn’t recognize the voice. Therefore, he knew that it didn’t belong to Yastic or to Kalen, but that’s all he knew.

He immediately exited the stall and then heard Marmalade hiss, his body turned to the side and his back arched. Geralt took his eyes off the cat and looked toward the open doorway. Standing just outside was a shadowy figure, and Geralt could just make out the silhouette of twin sword-hilts above the man’s shoulder.

“Yes, Master Witcher?” he asked as he hurried forward.

“Come here, boy,” said the witcher in a less harsh tone.

As he got closer, Geralt furrowed his brow once he recognized the witcher. It was Master Vesemir. Other than their one interaction – the impromptu sword-lesson - years ago, the two had never spoken.

The little boy stood silently in front of the master witcher, waiting for him to speak. But instead, for several long moments, the old man just stared at the boy, causing Geralt to lower his head and eyes. He never liked being scrutinized so closely.

Eventually, the witcher extended his hand, palm up.

“This is for you.”

Geralt quickly looked up, into Master Vesemir’s face, and then toward his hand. In it was a thin leather strip and small wooden pendant in the shape of a fish.

“Before the Trials began, he begged one of us to give this to you if he didn’t survive. I thought he was going to make it. He lasted a week, but…here, take it…if you want it.”

Geralt slowly lifted the necklace from the witcher and held it in front of him. He stared down at the pendant for the longest time. He could feel the tears starting to well in his eyes, and he quickly sucked in a breath. He didn’t want to cry in front of anyone – including one of the cadre – so he was just about to ask if he could be dismissed when he glanced up to see that he was alone. The witcher had walked off without him even noticing it.

Geralt swallowed once and put the pendant in his trousers’ pocket. He turned around, slowly walked back to the stall, and extinguished the lantern that he’d left hanging on the wall there. He climbed the rope up to his platform and removed his boots and thick coat before getting under the blankets. He lay on his back, staring upward as the tears flowed down his cheeks and into his hair. He closed his eyes and imagined God high up in the heavens.

“I guess I was right in the first place. You don’t care after all – just like everyone else here,” he whispered, and then he rolled over onto his side and tucked his knees to his chest. He grasped the wooden pendant in his hands, closed his eyes, and grieved for his best friend.

oOo

Three weeks later, Geralt was just walking through the front door of the barn when something hard came from out of nowhere and smacked him right in the face. The blow knocked him to the ground and blood immediately gushed forth from his nose. Before he could even focus his eyes, he felt himself being lifted off the ground, drug inside the barn, and slammed against the wall – his feet dangling in the air.

He was finally able to blink away the stars in his eyes, and what he saw in front of him caused his breath to catch in his throat. 

Reisel’s eyes were still the same shade of blue, but now, his pupils were different – like those of a cat. And just like the color, there was one other thing that hadn’t changed about his eyes. Geralt could see that they still held the same cruelty that they’d always possessed.

“Your retard’s no longer here to protect you, Piss Boy,” he hissed. “Which, in a way, is too bad. I was looking forward to killing him. But, either way, now, it’s just you and me again. Just like old times.”

Reisel then let out a small laugh.

“And remember my promise? Because I haven’t. I _am_ going to kill you. But it’s not going to be today. Not even tomorrow. I’m gonna have my fun with you first.”

With that, he punched Geralt in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He released his hold, and the little boy crumpled to the ground.

“With Farkus dead, you’re gonna be my new best friend. So, get used to seeing a lot of me, Piss Boy.”

The blond-haired velpe then spit on Geralt, smiled, and exited the barn.

oOo

_Day 2 – Dothan; February 1194_

The sun was just starting to set as Geralt left the country estate of House Dothan. He was incredibly confused with how his conversation with Prince Mathias had ended. He simply didn’t understand the prince’s reaction – first, the shock, then fear, and then what? – thought Geralt. Had it been resignation? The witcher wondered if he had guessed correctly about Rojet. Did the mage really have a plan to kill all of the royal members at the palace so that Mathias could, then, become king? Had Mathias acted the way he did because he had seen the truth in the theory and had been blind-sided by the revelation? The witcher wasn’t sure, but what he did know was that he needed proof – not just theories. And that meant that he needed to get into Rojet’s private quarters. 

As the witcher continued to ride south back toward the capital, his mind turned to the rest of the day’s events. All the conversations since that morning were an absolute twisted jumble in his mind. He tried to unravel it all as he kept his horse at a trot, but he couldn’t keep it all straight in his head. Therefore, he decided to focus on one thing – getting into Rojet’s lab. He’d worry about the rest when he got back to the palace. 

A couple of hours later, he dropped his borrowed horse off at the palace stables and headed to his bedchamber. He grabbed ‘The Good Book’ off the bedside table and found a writing utensil in the small desk in the corner of his room. He picked up a chair and headed out to the balcony to sit under the nearly-full moon. From his room, he had a perfect view of the stables. If Rojet left the palace again for a nighttime meeting, then Geralt would have the opportunity to sneak into his lab – wherever it was. But, until then, he’d try to untangle the convoluted mess that was this contract.

The witcher first wanted to get the Dothan family tree straightened out in his mind. On the inside cover of Lebioda’s tome, he drew close to a dozen squares with names on the inside and lines connecting the squares to symbolize relations through either marriage or birth. It was a mess. Everyone seemed to have double-titles. Camilla, for example, had been both the cousin and step-sister to Roope. Roope had been the nephew and, then, step-son to Elize. It was all quite confusing, but seeing it on the page in front of him greatly helped the witcher to make sense of it all. 

Next, he wrote down over a dozen names – all potential suspects that could be behind the killings. At the top of the list was Rojet and right underneath, he wrote, ‘Prince Roope.’ He then wrote down the names of pretty much everyone that he’d met in the last two days – Captain Birke, Doctor Dermitt, Ambassador Hintz, Prince Mathias, Iesner Vazney, Brother Kennit, Pierre - the cook - and even King Travid, himself. He couldn’t remember the name of the Lyrian ambassador, but he put him on the list as well. Just to make sure that he didn’t overlook anyone, he even wrote down the names of Nigel, the King’s young son, Delyla, and even Pumpkin – the king’s fat Dachshund hound. He then paused, shook his head, and quickly drew a line through those last three names. A small smirk came to his face as he tried to picture a blood-thirsty Pumpkin attempting to scale the palace walls.

_‘Let’s not get too paranoid,’_ he thought to himself.

At the very bottom of the list, he wrote, ‘Monster and/or persons unknown.’ 

After each name, he wrote out the possible motive for the killings. Next to Rojet, he penciled in, ‘Wants Mathias to be king?’ Beside Roope’s name, he wrote, ‘Revenge because Elize poisoned his mother (rumor)?’ After Hintz, he scribbled, ‘Chaos; Rivia annexes Dothan?’ He went down the list and tried to guess a motive for each suspect, but for most of them, he just didn’t know what to write. He simply had no clue why they would want the Queen dead. To make matters worse, there were two other – and even bigger - flies in the ointment. The first was Princess Camilla’s death. The attack on the princess made no sense, because as far as the witcher knew, _nobody_ had any reason for wanting her dead. Even if Prince Roope had somehow engineered Queen Elize’s murder out of payback for his own mother, Geralt just couldn’t see any reason for him to then want to kill Camilla. And the second big obstacle to this mental exercise was the fact that, if his theory about the monster was accurate, then there could only be one true suspect – Rojet. He was the only mage, the only one capable of controlling a monster with magic. So, did that mean that Rojet was working with one of the other suspects? Geralt knew that Mathias and Rojet were somehow connected, but after today’s conversation, the witcher was sure that Mathias had nothing to do with the deaths. So, where did all of this leave him, he thought.

_‘Nowhere,’_ he said to himself. _‘I’ve spent a day and a half on this, and I’m no closer to knowing who’s responsible than when I started. Hell, it could be someone I haven’t even met yet. It could be the ‘unknown person.’’_

Suddenly, the witcher yawned, and he realized just how tired he was. He hadn’t slept the night before, and the meditation that he had attempted had not be helpful. The lack of rest was starting to catch up to him.

_‘I’ll just close my eyes for a second,’_ he thought, as he yawned again.

The witcher suddenly opened his eyes when he heard the city’s bells ringing. He hadn’t been asleep – only meditating – and he’d come out of his trance-like state when he’d heard the ninth-bell sound. The ninth-bell, he thought. On those nights when Rojet did leave on his clandestine excursions, it was always about this time – just like the night before. The nearly-full moon was illuminating the palace grounds, so he stood up from his chair and took a single step back into his room, back into the shadows. He stood there perfectly still until, a few minutes later, he saw Rojet heading towards the stables. A few minutes after that, the mage, on horseback, left the palace. 

_‘Now, to find some evidence,’_ the teen thought. Then, a small smile crossed his lips. _‘Maybe the golem will be in his lab with a sign on its chest stating, ‘I’m the killer.’’_

With that thought, he quickly changed out of his nice attire – the clothes that he’d worn the previous evening in the royal dining room. If he did have to fight a golem, he didn’t want those pieces of clothing damaged. Next to his swords and his horse, they were probably the most expensive things that he possessed – even though he knew that, technically, the clothes were not his. He’d had virtually no private possessions while living at Kaer Morhen, so now that he did have a few things, he had a strong desire to protect them. Plus, he had to admit that he really liked the way he looked in that doublet, jerkin, and silk shirt. When he was wearing them, he felt a little special – almost like he was a knight in service to the royal court.

After changing into what he’d worn the previous evening when tailing the mage, he headed out to Sir Alyn’s room. The captain, along with the rest of the guards, lived in a large building that was separate from the palace. He was sure that the knight would know where Rojet’s private quarters were in the palace. He knocked several times, but no one answered. The witcher put his ear to the door but couldn’t hear any sounds coming from within.

The teen wasn’t sure what to do next so he simply headed back to the palace and started roaming the halls, figuring that he would run into some chambermaid who could point him in the right direction. But he must have walked around the enormous palace for half an hour without seeing anyone. Apparently, Captain Birke had been telling the truth. There really was only a skeleton crew manning the palace. Finally, he decided to head to the kitchens, thinking that there had to be someone there who could lead him to Rojet’s rooms. But while he was on his way there, he came across two palace guards walking the hallways. He assumed that they probably already knew who he was, but he introduced himself anyway while also showing them the king’s decree. Ten minutes later, they arrived at Rojet’s private quarters down in the dungeons, and then they left him alone – though one of the guards did look at him suspiciously over his shoulder as he walked away.

Remembering the magical shield that Rojet had cast around the cabin the previous night, Geralt slowly approached the door of the mage’s rooms. He reached into his pocket and grasped the wolf-head medallion, and, sure enough, when he was a foot away from the door, the medallion vibrated. There had to be some kind of protective barrier on the door, the teen thought, but he wasn’t sure what kind. However, given that the hallway was a public place, he doubted that the barrier was offensive in nature. Otherwise, some random guard or servant might get zapped as they innocently passed by the door.

If he tried to enter, would the barrier somehow notify the mage that there was an intruder in his rooms, wondered the teen. Then, he realized that, at that point, it no longer really mattered. If Rojet was meeting with Prince Mathias, he was sure that the prince would tell the mage of Geralt’s suspicions. So, he might as well go ahead and try turning the door handle. 

The witcher stepped close to the door, and he was about to reach for the handle when he suddenly stopped short. 

_‘Don’t go barging in,’_ he thought _. ‘Caution isn’t cowardice.’_

He crouched down and carefully looked at the door handle and the surrounding threshold. He also listened closely and inhaled deeply, but none of his physical senses were clueing him in to any specific danger. 

Finally, he stood up straight and gave a long, slow exhalation.

_‘Okay,’_ he thought. _‘Here we go.’_

He slowly reached out for the door handle, but his fingertips suddenly came to a stop about two inches before touching it. 

_‘Well, at least, it didn’t shock me.’_

He bent his wrist so that his palm was facing the handle and pushed with more force, but again, he couldn’t get past the magical barrier. 

_‘Forget the handle. Let’s try the door itself.’_

He took a step back and tried to press both hands against the door, but once again, his hands came to a halt about two inches before making contact with the wood. 

_‘Okay, let’s try an Aard.’_

The witcher took two steps back from the door at cast the strongest Aard Sign that he could. The teen raised his eyebrows at the result – the door remained completely undamaged. The magical barrier had held.

“Wonder what he’s hiding,” he whispered to himself. “I may have to knock a wall down to get in there.” 

The witcher then moved to the left of the door. He reached out and was able to touch the cold, smooth stones of the wall.

_“Okay. No barrier protecting the walls. I just need a pick-axe or a sledge hammer.”_

Another thought then quickly popped into his mind.

_‘You know what – if I’m going to start knocking down walls, then I probably need to get either Birke or Travid involved. They might frown on me destroying the palace.’_

With that thought, he headed back to Captain Birke’s room, but just like before, no one answered his knocks. Frustrated, the teen simply returned to his own bedchamber. The thought of trying to find the king and telling him of his suspicions had crossed his mind, but he eventually dismissed it. The man seemed very much like an unstable drunk, and frankly, Geralt didn’t want to deal with him unless he had concrete evidence in hand. Well, it was more than that, the teen admitted to himself. He just wasn’t completely sure that the mage was actually involved in the killings, and the last thing he wanted was to look stupid by making false accusations. He didn’t think that he’d be able to show his face in the palace if they knocked down the wall to Rojet’s room and found nothing incriminating inside. Maybe in the morning he could simply let Birke and the king know what he’d learned so far, and then he could let them make whatever assumptions they wanted to from that information. Let them bear the blame of a destroyed wall if Rojet was actually innocent of the attacks on the queen and princess.

The teen paced around his bedchamber, not really knowing what to do next. He wanted to see Delyla – she had been on his mind most of the day - but he didn’t know where her room was. And even if he did, he didn’t really know what he’d say to her. _‘I’m crazy about you. Do you want to come help me find my mother?’_

“Yeah. What grown woman wouldn’t love traveling around with a poor, teenage witcher?” he said out loud. “Walking all day from village to village, sleeping on the cold ground at night, having to hunt for your food. Who in her right mind could resist that?”

_‘She probably thinks you’re nothing but a silly kid,’_ he told himself.

Not knowing what else to do, he did some physical training for a while – one-armed pushups on his fingertips, exercises to strengthen his abdominal muscles, and the like. After that, he still wasn’t tired so, out of habit, he pulled his swords from his back and began cleaning and sharpening them – even though they didn’t need it. An hour later, he put his blades back in their respective scabbards and sighed. That’s when his eyes landed on ‘The Good Book’ on the table.

_‘Why not?’_ he thought with a shrug. _‘If nothing else, it might be good for a laugh.’_

He sat down at the table and, like he’d done the first time, opened the book at a random page near the middle.

“A wise man chooses his friends carefully, for bad company corrupts good character,” he read out loud. 

The teen furrowed his brows. He hadn’t been expecting that.

_‘Huh,’_ he thought. _‘Maybe this Lebioda guy isn’t a complete moron after all.’_

He flipped back through the pages until he came to a page with a chapter heading. ‘Proverbial Truths’ was the title. The teen decided to keep reading.

“As water reflects the face, so one’s life reflects the heart.”

He then read it a second time, more slowly, focusing his mind on what it truly meant.

_‘Huh, I think that’s actually true,’_ he thought. _‘Who I am – at my core – my character – what I value - will all be revealed by my behavior. Not so much by my words, but by my actual actions. And not just a one-time action, but by my habits. The things that I do over and over.’_ The teen paused for a long time and then thought, _‘So, just who am I, then? Or maybe a better question is…who do I aspire to be?’_

The witcher sighed softly as the answer came to him.

“Someone my mother would be proud of,” he whispered to himself.

He was about to go back to the book when he suddenly heard shouting coming through his open balcony doors. He walked over to second-story balcony and looked out over the grounds. He heard a voice by the side entrance yelling, “Open the damn gate! Right now!” Geralt thought that he recognized the voice, but he couldn’t be sure. The guards quickly obeyed the command, and as soon as there was the smallest space between the two gate doors, a figure on a horse came through. But, instead of taking his horse to the stables, he rode it straight towards the back entrance of the palace. The man dismounted his horse and strode purposefully past the guards posted at the back door. And it was at that moment that Geralt recognized who it was. It was Travid’s mage-advisor.

The witcher wasn’t exactly sure what had gotten Rojet into such a lather, but it was clear that he was. Instinctively, the teen moved back into the room, grabbed his swords, and buckled them onto his back. Suddenly, he could hear the click-clack sounds of boots on the hard floor of the palace hallway, and the sounds were coming his way. He silently moved to his door and reached up and grasped the hilt of his steel sword. When he heard the footsteps stop right outside his room, he held his breath and gripped the handle of his weapon a bit tighter. He was on full alert - his eyes glued to the door’s handle and his ears focused on every little sound. And then his eyes went wide because he heard the unintelligible but unmistakable sound of a sorcerer casting a spell. Immediately, the witcher cast the Quen Sign and turned from the door. A second later, a deafening explosion obliterated the wooden door and sent Geralt flying through the air. He landed on the bed, bounced off the mattress and landed on the hard floor on the far side of the room.

The teen scrambled to his feet, signed another Quen, and looked up just in time to see Rojet sending another pulse of deadly magic his way. Geralt immediately dove to his right towards the balcony and heard the stone wall behind him crack as the wave of Power blasted a chunk from it. As dust and dirt particles filled the air around him, he again got to his feet and pulled his sword from its scabbard. He glanced at Rojet and saw pure fury on the mage’s face. Geralt knew that it took two or three seconds for a mage to cast a powerful spell. They couldn’t cast them immediately, like a witcher could their Signs. In an instant, the witcher calculated the distance across the room to the sorcerer. As fast as he was, he knew that he couldn’t reach Rojet before the mage had time to cast his next barrage of death. So, he did the only other thing he knew to do. He turned and ran. He sprinted through the balcony doors and leapt over the railing into the air. Just as he was hitting the ground twenty feet below, he buckled his knees, tucked his body into a ball and did his best to roll. Luckily, his Quen had still been active when he’d hit the ground and had absorbed most of the impact, but even so, pain still shot through his right ankle.

The witcher looked up just in time to see Rojet - standing at the railing of the balcony – blasting forth another pulse of Power from his hands. Geralt rolled to his right, just avoiding the spell, as dirt and grass exploded into the air around him. He got to his feet and began running in a zig-zag pattern towards the palace gardens. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was going, but he knew he needed to put distance between himself and the mage. Over his shoulder, he could hear various palace guards yelling into the night air.

“Protect the king!”

“Find Captain Birke!”

“Run for your lives. It’s the monster!”

Geralt knew that last proclamation wasn’t true. It wasn’t the monster, just a very angry sorcerer.

While the teen was certainly no expert on magic or mages, he had learned some very useful tidbits in his classes with Master Hieronymus. And one of those facts was that mages had limited magical stamina. If they continuously cast spells, then they’d wear themselves out after five or ten minutes. So, Geralt knew that all he had to do was dodge and evade all of Rojet’s spells until the sorcerer was spent. 

_‘Oh, is that all?’_ he thought to himself as he limped along in the dark.

The witcher headed to the pavilion and then stood on the other side of it, with his weapon drawn. Less than a minute later, he saw Rojet exit the back doors of the palace and head towards the garden. 

The teen didn’t know what to do. Should he sign a Quen or not? If he did, then he’d certainly give away his location? Should he call out to Rojet? Ask him what the hell was going on? Damn it - why hadn’t those bastards at Kaer Morhen ever trained him on how to fight a sorcerer? 

_‘To hell with it,’_ he thought. _‘Maybe I can talk my way out of this. It never worked at Kaer Morhen, but maybe it’ll work now.’_

“Rojet!” he called out, still using the pavilion as cover. “I don’t know what you think I did, but I’m willing to talk it out!”

Geralt immediately fell face down on the ground as he saw the mage cast a spell his way. A second later, he heard wood splintering and the roof of the pavilion came crashing down.

“You killed him,” hissed Rojet from the other side of the burning pavilion. “And now, I’m going to kill you.”

A moment later, another spell hit the pavilion and more wood and shingles blasted into the air. Geralt got to his feet, signed a Quen, and then ran deeper into the gardens. He kept looking over his shoulder and would dive to one side or the other, whenever he saw a bright wave of Power coming his way. 

_‘Damn it,’_ he thought as he ran. _‘He’s got to tire out soon.’_

The witcher suddenly came to a halt and nodded his head at what he saw in front of him. He looked over his shoulder at the still-advancing mage and then entered the garden’s maze of ten-foot tall, thick hedges. He ran through the labyrinth taking left and right turns, and once his Quen Sign blinked out, he knew not to recast it. He stood completely still inside the maze, just listening. He could hear the mage somewhere behind him. It didn’t sound like Rojet was even trying to be inconspicuous. He was breathing loudly and his feet were stomping the ground as he walked.

An idea popped into the teen’s mind, and he turned and began using his razor-sharp sword to slice a small hole near the bottom of the hedge, leaving the loose branches on either side of the hole. He lay down in the prone position and scooched his way backward into the hole. Once he was in, he grabbed the loose branches and stuck them into the ground or into the hedge, hoping it would adequately conceal him. Even with a nearly-full moon above them, he was pretty sure that the sorcerer wouldn’t be able to spot him now.

Suddenly, the witcher inhaled deeply, smelling a very distinct odor.

_‘The crazy bastard,’_ he thought.

He turned his head toward Rojet’s direction, and though he couldn’t see any flames, the smell and sound of the hedges burning was unmistakable. The mage had set the maze on fire.

_‘Stay calm, Geralt,’_ he said to himself as he slowed down his breathing. _‘Stay calm. He can’t see in the dark. You can.’_

Less than a minute later the teen heard him – coming from his right. Geralt shifted his eyes that way. He could only see the mage from the knees down, but it was definitely him. The sorcerer was casting flames to each side of him as he walked, causing the hedges behind him to catch fire. 

When Rojet was only five feet away, Geralt tensed his muscles, digging the toes of his boots into the soil and gripping tightly the sword that was down at his side. Suddenly, the hedge above him caught fire, and as soon as it did, the witcher shot out of his hiding spot. Just as he sprung to his feet, he saw Rojet turn, but it was too late for the mage. Geralt thrust his left hand forward and signed an Aard. The sorcerer was blown backwards through the air and hit the ground with a thud, and just a fraction of a second later, the witcher was already there – standing over him with the tip of his blade inches from his throat.

“Don’t even blink, Rojet. I don’t want to kill you, but I will.”

The mage didn’t immediately respond. He just glared at the teen. Geralt could see nothing but absolute hatred on the man’s face.

“You’re gonna _have_ to kill me, witcher,” he spat out. “Because I’m going to make you pay for what you did. I have enough magic in me for at least one more spell. And that fire is getting closer.”

“Rojet, we don’t have to do this. I don’t know what you think I did, but I – I didn’t do it.”

“You know, I thought you were different,” said the mage, his voice suddenly and eerily calm. “I’ve met witchers before. They were all heartless bastards, but when I met you…I thought you were somehow different. But I was wrong. You’re just like the rest of them…and you killed him.”

Geralt furrowed his brows.

“I didn’t kill anyone, Rojet. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Suddenly, Geralt could start to feel the heat on his back. The flames were getting closer, but he wasn’t about to take his eyes off of the mage. And that was when he blinked several times to make sure that he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. Rojet was crying, tears pouring forth from his eyes. Because he was on his back, they fell down his temples and into his hair.

“He was the best thing this gods-forsaken kingdom ever produced. He was selfless and did his duty for his family and never once complained. He was good man…a noble man, and he was my world. And just when we had the chance to finally be happy, you had to ruin it all.”

“Rojet, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” the teen yelled in exasperation.

And then he heard the mage start mumbling - speaking a spell.

“No! No, Rojet! Don’t do it!”

But the mage kept speaking, and then he began moving his arms.

“Rojet! Don’t! Don’t do it!”

Suddenly, the mage’s hands lit up blue, and he gathered himself to push them upward.

“No!” the witcher yelled.

And he thrust his sword downward.


	8. Chapter 8

_Kaer Morhen – 1187_

Geralt gritted his teeth, his breathing fast and heavy. His muscles were trembling, and they felt as if they were on fire. But he wasn’t going to quit – no matter what. This year would be the year.

He opened his eyes to see Master Barin staring at him. Master Kalen was also there, staring at him, as well. Upon seeing that scarred, ugly face, Geralt closed his eyes again, and in his mind, he yelled out to himself, _“Up! Up!”_

His arms continued to shake, but finally, eventually, he heard the sweet words of relief.

“That’s enough, boy. Lower your arms.”

Geralt immediately blew out his breath and dropped his arms to his side. The tips of the training swords that he held in each hand fell to the ground. He didn’t know how long he’d held the swords straight out to the side – for he’d lost count after sixty seconds – but however long it was must have been enough to satisfy the fodder’s sword instructor. Though Geralt’s ten years made him one of the oldest of the new batch of fodder, he was still also the smallest – looking more like some of the incoming eight-year-olds. Thus, Master Barin had wanted to verify that he possessed sufficient upper-body strength to handle the training swords.

“I’ll inform Yastic that you’ll no longer be assisting him in the afternoons,” said the master witcher. “Tomorrow, you’ll start your sword training with all the rest of the fodder.”

Though a part of him wanted to smile, Geralt kept his face stoic. He didn’t want any of these whoresons – and certainly not Master Kalen – to think that they had any kind of control over his life – even over his emotions. 

So, instead, he simply gave a small nod of his head and said, “Yes, Master Barin.”

oOo

“And that is the description of a nekker,” said Master Kalen. “If any of you dolts actually make it through the Trials, then at some point, you’ll be taken into the mountains to see what real ones look like. But, until then, the drawing in this bestiary will suffice.”

One of the new fodder tentatively raised his hand. Geralt – sitting in the back of the room – slowly shook his head. Classes had commenced a week ago. Hadn’t the fodder learned already it was never good to bring attention to themselves?

“Master Kalen?” the boy asked.

Kalen turned his one-eyed gaze on the fodder.

“Boy?”

“If…if there are monsters near here, then…then why don’t you – I mean, all the witchers kill them. I…I thought that’s what witchers were supposed to do.”

“That’s not a bad question, boy. Shows that you’re thinking.”

What the hell, thought Geralt. He’d asked the very same question his first year here and had been completely mocked by Kalen. He’d then been forced to kneel on the floor, holding two books out to his sides for the rest of the class. This wasn’t fair at all.

“Piss Boy!” yelled Kalen, bringing Geralt out of the memory. “Tell the class why we don’t kill all the monsters surrounding Kaer Morhen.”

“No coin, no killing, Master Kalen,” said Geralt. It was a phrase he’d heard Master Kalen repeat at least a hundred times.

“Again! Louder!” barked Kalen.

“No coin, no killing, Master Kalen,” said Geralt in a louder voice.

Kalen glared at the rest of the class.

“That’s right, and if even Piss Boy can learn this, then I expect the rest of you to do so, as well. So, listen close, shit-for-brains…we are training you to be witchers, and witchers do one thing. We kill monsters…for money. No money, then we keep our swords sheathed. Now, don’t misunderstand, you can kill monsters in self-defense. That should go without saying, but we’re not sending you out into the world so that you can help the weak out of the kindness of your heart. When you walk out the front gates of Kaer Morhen, there will be no kindness in your hearts. So, if you _do_ come across some peasant being attacked, and if – and I say if – you do decide to come to their aid, then you are to demand recompense afterward. And if they have no coin to pay you, then you invoke the Law of Surprise. But no matter what happens or how it happens, if you pull your sword, then you are to get compensated for your work. Understood?”

“Yes, Master Kalen,” shouted all the fodder in unison.

“Good. So, I want to hear you say it. ‘No coin, no killing.’”

“No coin, no killing!”

“Again!”

“No coin, no killing!”

oOo

Geralt knew that he owed Eugene an apology. Last spring, he’d had a thousand questions for his friend regarding his sword training, but he’d been disappointed with the answers. Eugene had told him that he’d spent weeks doing nothing but learning how to properly withdraw his swords from their scabbards. Geralt, at the time, thought that the only explanation for why Eugene wasn’t progressing faster was because he was, to be frank, a bit slow-witted. But it turned out that the training had nothing to do with Eugene’s intelligence, and it now shamed Geralt that he’d had those thoughts about his friend. For, indeed, during the first few weeks of sword training, Master Barin had all the fodder do nothing but practice unsheathing their swords.

Of course, there was more to it than simply taking out their weapons. They spent hours putting on and taking off their scabbards - learning how to properly adjust their gear so that the scabbards rested at the perfect position on their backs. There were more hours simply learning how to stand properly – the exact positions for their knees and feet. Only then, did they begin actually practicing withdrawing their swords. But even that was slow-going, with Master Barin carefully explaining the perfect technique – the precise angle with which to raise their sword arm, the exact location on the hilt to be gripped, and the use of the off-hand to reach behind, knocking the scabbard forward to decrease its angle, which would in turn allow Geralt to remove his weapon easier. Each part – by itself – seemed easy enough, but when Geralt had to do them all at once – and do them perfectly – the process became much more difficult. That very first day, before he’d even begun with the instruction, Master Barin had demonstrated the proper way to withdraw one’s blade, and Geralt’s jaw had almost dropped. The master witcher went from standing upright with his hands at his sides to crouched with a sword in hand in less than a second. 

Geralt knew that he had countless hours of practice ahead of him if he ever wanted to wield his sword that quickly, but the little boy also knew that he was up for the challenge. His entire life, he’d been desiring to use a sword with skill – ever since his mother began reading him fairy tale stories of heroic knights. And if that meant spending weeks – or even months – doing nothing but unsheathing his sword, then that was something he was prepared to do.

One afternoon, during that first week of class, Geralt asked Master Barin if he could take his training swords with him once their training was over for the day.

The witcher had narrowed his eyes at the little boy and said, “Why, so you can swing them around, playing make-believe? These are training swords, boy. Not play toys.”

“I know that, Master Barin. I just want to practice. I promise I’ll only practice what you’ve taught me. Nothing else.”

Eventually, Master Barin nodded his head. “Fine, but if I come down to the stables one night and catch you playing the fool - using these swords in any way outside of how I’ve taught you, it’ll be your ass.”

Geralt couldn’t believe his luck. Not in a million years would he have thought that one of the master-witchers would ever agree to anything he’d ask, and he wasn’t going to fritter away the opportunity. From that day on, every free waking moment was spent working on his sword skills. As the winter turned to spring and then summer, every night, after his evening chores were done, he’d spend hours in the stables practicing that week’s sword drills. For Geralt wasn’t stupid. He knew that he was smaller and weaker than everyone else. Therefore, if he was going to survive, then he’d have to simply outwork them. He had no other options.

Unfortunately, his nightly training wasn’t the only activity that was routine. Reisel was true to his word and made Geralt’s life hell. Since Reisel was now a velpe and had no training with Geralt throughout the day, he’d visit the stables three or four nights a week to batter the little boy. He’d never inflict severe damage – no broken bones and such. Geralt assumed it was because Reisel knew if he injured him to the point that he missed training then the witchers would step in. But hurt the little boy, he certainly did. There wasn’t a week that went by when Geralt didn’t sport a black eye, a busted nose, or a swollen lip. And just when the bruising was about to subside, Reisel would visit again.

But, truthfully, the worst part about Reisel’s visits wasn’t the physical pain. It was the constant fear. During every one of Reisel’s visits, he threatened to end the little boy’s life. Geralt wasn’t a hundred percent sure that the velpe really planned to kill him. He knew that the threats could simply be a form of mental and emotional torture – a way for Reisel to exert power over him. Plus, he was sure that Reisel remembered Master Elgar’s words – “A life for a life.” Geralt figured that if the velpe ever followed through with his death threat, then he’d do his best to make it look like some sort of accident. But, despite his small doubts about the velpe’s intentions, Geralt knew that there was something truly wrong with Reisel. His ability to find pleasure in inflicting pain went beyond the ‘normal’ tormentors that could be found at Kaer Morhen. Thus, Geralt had no doubt that the blond velpe was capable of ‘snapping’ at any moment and losing control – killing him in the process. Therefore, at night, when doing his sword drills, Geralt always trained outside – either in the corral or in front of the barn. He figured Reisel would be less likely to kill him outside, where there was a stronger chance of a random passerby witnessing the murder.

But the fear wasn’t completely detrimental for Geralt – for it drove him. It drove him to train harder than he’d ever trained before. It drove him, also, to brainstorm – to come up with ideas on how to defend himself from Reisel. Ultimately, it drove him to grasp some kind of control over his life. He had come to realize that, for the last five years, he had been at the complete mercy of everyone around him. Not only the master cadre, obviously, but all of the velpen and fodder, as well. And he hated that feeling, hated the fear that was ever-present. So, though he knew that he couldn’t control his size, he could control his determination to train. He could control his perseverance through pain and beatings and failure. And it was that tiny, sliver of control that he clung to, for even though it was small, it seemed to negate the fear just ever so slightly.

oOo

Marmalade hissed loudly, and Geralt immediately came awake. He opened his eyes to the cold, late-night, autumn darkness, and instantly reached down into the pocket of his trousers. A fraction of a second later, he felt hands around his throat and he was lifted into the air, his blankets falling from his body.

“Tonight’s the night, Piss Boy. Didn’t think I could get up here, did ya?” whispered Reisel, his face just inches from Geralt. The velpe then laughed. “You _really_ thought you were safe from me, up here on your platform?” 

Geralt didn’t answer. He couldn’t because Reisel was cutting off his air. But he was also too focused on frantically trying to pull the object out of his pocket.

“I’d really like to gut you, Piss Boy. Watch your blood and life slowly leak from your body. But, unfortunately, that’d be too obvious. So, I’m just gonna snap your neck and toss you off your platform. Make it look like an accident. What do you -”

But Reisel didn’t finish his threat. Geralt had finally retrieved the make-shift blade from his pocket and had stabbed the velpe in the gut three, quick times. Reisel immediately cried out in pain and surprise and brought both hands to his stomach, dropping Geralt onto the platform at the same time. He pulled his hands away from his shirt to see that they were covered in blood. The sight brought him to a fury, and he let out a low growl. But before he could even look up, Geralt was already on his feet, charging towards the velpe. He drove his shoulder right into Reisel’s midsection and pushed forward with all his might, and a split-second later, the two boys tumbled off the platform into the darkness below.

Falling through the air, Geralt lost all sense of direction, and then, suddenly, he felt incredible pain in his sides and abdomen as he was jerked to a stop. His safety rope – the rope that he had tied around his waist every night for almost a year - had actually held, and he was now dangling in mid-air, about five feet below his platform. He eventually righted himself, put his dagger back in his pocket, and climbed the rope back up to his platform. He quickly untied himself and lowered his climbing rope down to the ground. He listened closely and could hear moans coming from Reisel in the stall below.

He repelled down the rope, but, towards the end, he stopped and tentatively lowered his foot toward the ground. He waived his foot around in the air several times before finally stepping onto the hard surface. He walked very carefully over to the door of the stall and lit the lantern that he kept hanging there on the wall. The light illuminated the horse’s stall, and Geralt took in the scene before him. Reisel lay supine on the ground, and protruding from his throat, his lower abdomen, and his calf were three sharp sticks. 

For the last year, Geralt had made sure that the stall below his sleeping platform was always free of horses. And every single night before heading to bed, he’d spend almost an hour inserting dozens of foot-long, deadly sticks into the hard dirt of the stall and covering them with hay. Then, every morning, he’d wake up early to stack the loose hay in the corner before removing and hiding all of the sticks. There had been countless nights when he thought that he was wasting his time, but it turned out that he’d been wrong about that.

Geralt – with his dagger back in hand - carefully walked towards Reisel, stopping a few feet away from the velpe. Blood was pouring from all of his wounds, and though he seemed to be trying to speak, nothing but gurgles were coming from his throat. Geralt raised the lantern in his hand so that he could get a better look at Reisel’s face. Getting a clearer view of the velpe’s injuries caused him to suck in his breath and bring his hand up to his mouth. After a few moments, he clenched his jaws, lowered his hand from his face, and stared Reisel in the eyes.

“I never wanted this. _You_ made this happen…because you just wouldn’t leave me alone. I just wanted to be left alone. Oh, and just so you know – I _knew_ you would come for me at night. Because that’s just the kind of pathetic coward you are.”

Reisel lifted his hand up towards Geralt and tried to speak, but it was unintelligible. However, what was unmistakable to Geralt was what he saw in Reisel’s eyes. If there was one thing that the little boy knew it was fear. He furrowed his brow at the velpe and slowly shook his head.

“You actually think I’m going to _help_ you? After the absolute hell, you’ve put me through?”

He then looked down at the dagger in his hand for several long seconds. Eventually, he gave a quick shake of his head and put the dagger back in his pocket. 

“I’m not gonna kill you. But I sure as hell ain’t gonna save you. So, just hurry up and die, you piece of filth.”

The eleven-year old boy stood absolutely still in the horse stall and carefully watched Reisel die, never taking his eyes off of the velpe. Several minutes later, once Reisel had breathed his last, Geralt extinguished the lantern, letting the stables once again fill with darkness. He walked over to the door of the stall and slowly sat down with his back to the wall. Eventually, he broke the silence with one softly spoken word.

“Mama,” he whispered in the darkness, and then he put his face in his hands and began to cry.

oOo

_Day 2 – Dothan; February 1194_

With one hand, the teen slowly pushed open the front door of the dark cabin and, after a moment, took a tentative step over the threshold. Once inside, he paused and stood still. He let his eyes scan around the room. There wasn’t much there in terms of furniture, but it was very clean and neat. He noticed a couple of still-life paintings hanging on the walls, and then his eyes stopped on a small table. There was a bottle of what he assumed was some kind of alcohol, and next to it were two drinking cups. In the middle of the table was an unlit candle. Geralt could tell that it had been burned in the past because he could see the melted wax that had dripped down the sides. He swallowed and turned to his left, towards the only other room in the cabin. His nose told him what he would find.

The door to the bedroom was open, and he stopped when he came to the threshold. There was a desk on the left, some shelves on the back wall, and a bed on the right. In the middle of the room, on the floor, was a turned over chair and a long piece of rope that ended in a noose. He stepped into the room and walked over to the bed. Prince Mathias lay sprawled out on top of the covers. The skin of his face had a pale, bluish tint, and his eyes were open and blood shot. The stench of feces and urine was strong. Geralt knew that in death, the muscles of the body went slack, which could cause one’s bowels and bladder to expel their contents. The witcher bent over the body and could see the rope burns around the once-handsome man’s neck. He stared down into the dead prince’s face and slowly shook his head. Why had Mathias killed himself, he wondered? Had the prince been involved with the deaths at the palace, after all? Had he hanged himself to avoid the fallout from his and Rojet’s actions?

The witcher began moving around the room, seeing what else he could find. He eventually came to the desk and saw a piece of parchment next to an inkwell and a writing utensil. He picked up the parchment and read.

_My love,_

_I think that deep down I always knew it couldn’t last. I knew that, one day, the world would eventually discover our love…_

The teen furrowed his brow but continued reading. And the more that he discovered, the more that he felt like he was violating the prince’s life. The letter was clearly not meant to be read by him – only Rojet. And, then, towards the end of the note, Geralt felt as if he had suddenly been kicked in the gut. Prince Mathias wrote of how ‘the witcher’ had uncovered their secret and had revealed it to Travid and Birke.

_‘But I didn’t,’_ he thought to himself. _‘I didn’t even know.’_

He went back to the note.

_I’m truly sorry for doing this, Rojet. But I hope that you can understand. I simply can’t face the shame that this will bring upon my family, because the truth of our love will now get out. There are no secrets in that palace. Please know that I have cherished our time together, and I hope that the next life will be kinder to us both._

_Yours always,_

_Mathias_

The teen stood in the dark, closed his eyes, and slowly lowered his chin to his chest. He stood there and felt the weight of it come down on him.

“I didn’t know,” he rasped out in the tiniest of whispers. “I didn’t know.”

He could barely get the words out. He could barely even breathe.

Geralt didn’t know how long that he’d stood there, but eventually he raised his head and looked at the note in his hand. He exhaled slowly and gave a slight nod. He held the note in front of him, placed his left hand – palm-up – underneath it, and cast a small Igni flame. He held onto the note and watched the orange fire slowly crawl its way upward, the flames turning the prince’s last words to ash. Once the fire was near his fingertips, he dropped what was left of the note to the floor and ground it out with his boot. He quickly turned and headed for the door. He had to get back to the palace. He had to know what was in Rojet’s lab.

oOo

Geralt poured the last of the bottle’s contents into his glass and carefully placed the empty bottle back down on the floor beside him. He held his glass up in front of his face, stared at the four-fingers of vodka for a moment, gave the liquid a single swirl, and then very slowly drank down half of it. The alcohol burned on the way down, which suited the witcher. He wanted to hurt. He downed the rest of the glass, closed his eyes and rested his head back against the cold wall of his partially-destroyed bedchamber.

By the time he’d returned from finding Mathias’ body, it was late in the night, and the entire palace was in chaos. Even half of the city was awake. The witcher had understood why. As he had ridden back into the city, it looked as if the royal palace was burning. Fortunately, it was only the hedge maze. Somehow the fire hadn’t spread to the rest of the gardens, but the maze itself was an inferno. The only thing to be done at that point was to simply let it burn out. That, or pray for a thunderstorm.

The witcher had grabbed a palace guard and told him that they needed to get into Rojet’s lab, and an hour later, Geralt and a few of the guards – with the help of sledge hammers and pick axes - finally broke their way through the stone wall. Unfortunately, they’d found nothing. Eventually, the guards left, but the teen stayed in the mage’s quarters, meticulously searching through every book, every piece of parchment, every nook and cranny. He’d even pulled his medallion out of his pocket, held it in his hand, and walked all around the sorcerer’s rooms. He’d been hoping to find an illusion, a secret room or tunnel, something…anything proving that the mage had been behind the monster’s attacks. He’d found nothing. So, he’d trudged back to his bedchamber, and when his eyes had landed on the full bottle of the vodka on a nearby shelf, he’d nodded his head and reached for it.

The teen opened one eye when he heard footsteps coming down the hall. A moment later, Delyla peaked her head into the room. 

“Thank the gods,” she said, “There you are.”

Seeing that it was her caused him to open the other eye, as well.

“Yeah. Here I am.”

“Are you okay? Where have you been? No one could find you for hours. Then, I finally heard you were down in Rojet’s rooms, but when I went down, you weren’t there. Are you the one that knocked his wall down?”

“That’s…a lot of questions, Delyla. I’m not sure which one to answer first.”

He saw her face soften, the concern in her eyes.

“Are you okay? Answer that first, and then we can go from there.”

“No, I’m not okay.” He reached down and picked up the empty bottle. “I’m out of vodka…so I’m not okay.”

Her eyes widened.

“Dear gods, Geralt. You drank that entire bottle? How are you not passed out right now?”

A sneer came to his face.

“Because I’m a _mutant,_ Delyla. I thought you knew that. I need twice the alcohol as most men to get drunk. Just one more curse from going through the Trials.”

The chambermaid sat down on the floor next to him and crossed her legs in front of her.

“Are you drinking because…because you had to kill Rojet?”

“‘Had to kill.’ Interesting way to put it. I’ve killed before – did you know that? And I’m not talking about a monster but another human being.”

Delyla just shook her head.

“Yeah, I did. And in that case, I really did _have_ to kill. It was either that or die.”

He broke his gaze and stared off into nothingness for a moment, lost in thought.

“It’s a terrible thing…to kill. Even when it’s in self-defense, it’s still a terrible thing.

He brought his eyes back to hers.

“But tonight? _Two people_ died because of my actions. And neither should’ve happened. Neither of them _had_ to die.”

He could see the confusion on her face.

“Two people? Geralt, what are you talking about?”

The teen then spent the next ten minutes telling her everything - from his conversation with Mathias, to Rojet’s last words in the maze, to finding the prince and his suicide note in the cabin. When he was done, he couldn’t look at her. He just kept his eyes cast down, looking at the floor in between them.

“Oh, my gods, Geralt. I’m – I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t respond. He just nodded.

“What are you going to do? Are you going to tell King Travid?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head and still looking down. “Their deaths have nothing to do with the monster so…it’s none of his damn business. I’m…I’m not going to tell anyone – except for you. You’re the only person I trust.”

She scooched a little closer and reached out her hand, gently resting hers on top of his. He stared at her hand for a moment and then brought his eyes up to hers.

“Why didn’t he just tell me, Delyla? Why didn’t he just tell me he was homosexual? I…I wouldn’t have cared. Hell, I _don’t_ care. I don’t give a damn who people sleep with. They can do whatever the hell they want to with their genitals. It’s none of my business. Hell, I don’t even _want_ to know what people do in private. But, if…if he’d had just told me, then I wouldn’t have been suspicious any longer. And I wouldn’t have told anyone. I would’ve promised him that I’d keep quiet about it. And then all of this could’ve been avoided. And that’s what’s killing me. Two men died tonight because of my actions – and it was _totally_ unnecessary, because they had nothing to do with the monster.”

“Geralt, he didn’t tell you because he was probably scared.”

“Scared? Why?”

A deep look of compassion came across her face, and she squeezed his hand.

“Geralt, that sort of thing – homosexuality – is…frowned upon.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. Homosexuals are viewed as…degenerates. They’re kicked out their families, run out of town. Heck, sometimes they’re even killed because of it.”

“That makes it even worse.”

“What does?”

“Because I would’ve understood. I’ve been an outcast my entire life. So…he could’ve told me, and I would’ve understood.” 

He dropped his chin to his chest and just shook his head. Neither said anything, and she just continued holding his hand. After a moment, he spoke.

“When I left Kaer Morhen, I…I thought that life would get easier…simpler. That it would be…nicer.” He then looked her in the eyes. “But it’s not that way at all, is it?”

Delyla frowned and slowly shook her head.

“No, Geralt. It’s not.”

He stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes, sighed, and rested his back against the wall.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

Instantly, the teen’s eyes opened, and he suddenly felt his heart in his throat.

“Uh, what?”

“Let’s get you to bed,” she said, standing up, still holding his hand. “The sun is coming up, and I’m assuming you haven’t slept at all, right?”

She looked around the room. Pieces of wood, splinters, and stone fragments were everywhere.

“Well, you can’t sleep in this disaster. Come on, I’ll put you in the room down the hall.”

The teen, still holding onto her hand, got to his feet, and as soon as he did, he wobbled to his side. He had to take a quick step to catch his balance. He looked at her a bit sheepishly.

“Huh, maybe I’m a little drunk, after all.”

She gave him a little smile.

“That’s alright. We’ve all been there. And after the night you had…”

She led him down the hall to the next room over and unlocked the door.

“Come on, sit on the bed, and I’ll help you take your boots off.”

The teen did as he was told. He looked down at her while she unlaced his boots and said, “Can you imagine what it must have been like for him?”

“Who?”

“Prince Mathias. Living with…a mask on. Married to a woman he didn’t love. Hell, apparently, he even consummated the marriage. Talk about playing a part. He must’ve constantly been on edge – worried that he’d slip up and say the wrong thing or look at someone the wrong way. Always afraid that someone would find out his secret. Can you imagine?”

Delyla looked up at the witcher, stared him in the eyes, and nodded her head.

“Yeah, it sounds exhausting.”

As she began unlacing his other boot, Geralt watched her intently and inhaled deeply. Even though he was covered in sweat, dirt, and smoke from the previous evening, her scent of lilac came through. And, suddenly, he felt himself getting aroused – just like in the bathtub. But he had just enough vodka in him that he didn’t care. She pulled both of his boots off, and when she stood up, so did he. He towered over the petite woman, and he wanted to take her in his arms. He’d never kissed a woman in his life, and at that moment, he wanted it more than anything.

“Delyla,” he said, his gravelly voice, now suddenly even deeper.

She was staring right back at him, and then she bit her lower lip. That simple act looked so sensual, the teen couldn’t resist. With his heart pounding in his ears, he bent down and brought his lips to hers. He closed his eyes and savored the moment. It was the softest, gentlest, and most exhilarating feeling he’d ever had. What made it more so was that he could sense her kissing him back. And, then, suddenly it was over. He quickly opened his eyes to see that she had taken a couple of steps back from him and her eyes were wide.

“I…I’m so sorry, Geralt. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

“What? Why? It was fantastic.”

A small smile came to her face.

“That was your first kiss, wasn’t it?”

He felt his face flush, and he looked down.

“How…how did you know? Was I that bad?”

“No, it was nice, but…”

Upon hearing that he raised his head and looked at her.

“…I shouldn’t have let it happen, Geralt. I’m, well, I’m seeing someone, and…it’s not fair to him.”

The teen felt like he’d just been kicked in the balls.

“Sir Alyn?” he asked.

“Yes…how did you know?”

“I didn’t. But…I smelled lilac in his room yesterday. But he had no lilac flowers anywhere, and…I doubted the man bathed in that scent, so…I was just hoping that I was wrong.”

She gave a slight shake of her head.

“Well, you weren’t.”

She lowered her gaze from his.

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but…I’m not sure who else to talk to about it. I haven’t made a lot of friends here. I’m just…I’m really worried about him.”

She then looked back at the teen. Geralt could see the concern in her eyes.

“I think these killings are really weighing on him. He looks horrible and…he’s just not himself. I think the stress is making him really sick. As the captain of the guard, I think he feels responsible.”

Delyla was right. Geralt really didn’t want to talk with her about her boyfriend. He was now embarrassed that he’d even kissed her and just wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere.

“That’s understandable,” the teen mumbled, now having a hard time looking at the woman. “If he’s sick, maybe he should see Doctor Dermitt.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

After that, neither said anything, and the silence just kept getting longer and longer. The teen felt incredibly awkward and wanted to say something to break it, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His head was a jumbled mess, and the alcohol sloshing around in his brain wasn’t helping.

“Well, I won’t keep you up any longer,” she finally said. “I hope you sleep well.”

She quickly exited the room and shut the door behind her. The witcher looked up and exhaled deeply.

“Bloody hell,” cursed the teen as he sat back down on the bed. “That was _not_ how I wanted my first kiss to go.” He then sighed. “Just…bloody hell.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Kaer Morhen – 1188_

“Boy, why didn’t you tell us that Reisel had threatened to kill you?”

Geralt looked Master Elgar in the eyes, and then he quickly glanced to the right and left. Also present were Kalen, Barin, and Vesemir. His eyes stopped on Master Kalen for just a moment before returning to the eldest witcher sitting in the middle of a long bench. The little boy stood still before the four witchers inside the great hall of the keep.

He gave a small shrug of his shoulders.

“I didn’t think it would make a difference, Master Elgar. You hear someone shouting, ‘I’m gonna kill you,’ at least once a week around here. But they never follow through with it. So…I figured no one would take the threat seriously…Master Elgar.”

“You could have at least tried, boy,” remarked Barin, shaking his head. “Would that have killed you? I mean, hell, we lost a perfectly good velpe.”

Geralt furrowed his brow at the statement for a moment, clenched his jaws, and stared at his sword instructor in disbelief. He glared quickly at Kalen and then back again to Barin. His breaths were suddenly coming very deep and fast.

“My first week here, when I was five years old, I was getting beaten up every day. Every _damn_ day, by fodder twice my size,” he said through gritted teeth. “I went to Master Kalen and asked for help. Not only did he not stop the beatings, he encouraged the fodder to continue to do it. I learned then, Master Barin, that _none_ of you give a shit. _None_ of you. That’s why I didn’t even bother.”

Immediately, both Kalen and Barin jumped up from the bench and headed for the boy.

“Sit down! The both of you!” shouted Master Vesemir, also getting to his feet. “The boy’s been through enough today.”

Geralt hadn’t known that Master Vesemir held some type of authority over the two, but he must have because, while they continued to level steely eyes at the little boy, they also stopped their approach. Eventually, they returned to the bench and sat again, but their stares remained ice-cold.

Geralt glared right back at them.

_‘To hell with you both,’_ he thought as something suddenly clicked in his mind.

He knew that they weren’t going to kill him – especially when he was less than a month away from the Trials. They were clearly only concerned with making velpen and nothing else. So, honestly, what was the worst that they could do to him? What could they possibly do that was any worse than what he’d already gone through? Plus, if he made it through the Trials, then he’d never have to be under their instruction ever again.

Master Elgar eventually broke the silence.

“While Reisel’s death was clearly a case of self-defense, it is also clear – from the trap you set – that you meant to kill him. And despite your reasons, I agree with Master Barin. You should have alerted of us of the threat. So, it is my decision that his death was entirely avoidable…and, though you do not bear all of the blame, you do bear some. Thusly, you will be disciplined for your actions.”

“Excellent,” hissed Kalen. “I’ll get the whip.”

“The hell you will,” fired back Vesemir. “You’ll kill the boy.”

“Silence!” demanded Master Elgar. He then looked at Geralt. “Boy, step outside. We have things to discuss. We’ll be with you shortly.”

Two hours later, Geralt stood shirtless in front of all the fodder and velpen in the keep. His wrists were tied together and secured to a railing above his head. He’d just listened to Master Elgar address everyone regarding the incident, and over his shoulder, he could see Master Vesemir descending the stairs with a whip in hand.

He closed his eyes and thought to himself, _‘Don’t cry. Don’t make a noise. Don’t give the whoresons the satisfaction. You can bear this. Whatever you do, don’t give them satisfaction.’_

He kept repeating that to himself over and over until, suddenly, he heard the whip crack. He felt his back torn open – the pain so intense that it drowned out all of his thoughts - and he screamed out at the top of his lungs.

oOo

Geralt sat cross-legged on his platform high up in the stables and gently petted Marmalade who was curled up next to him. He closed his eyes and focused all of his thoughts on his senses – on the soft feel of the cat hair on his fingertips and the loud purring that easily reached his ears. He was focusing hard on the moment because he wanted to etch it permanently into his memory. 

It had been almost a month since his public whipping, and tomorrow morning he – along with the rest of the fodder in his cohort – would undergo the Trial of Grasses. But he wasn’t thinking about that right now. Instead, he let his mind play back over all the memories that he had of Marmalade over the past six years – the countless hours of the two of them just playing with a simple string, the times that Marmalade would proudly drop a dead bird or mouse at Geralt’s feet, and all the lonely nights that Marmalade made bearable by snuggling up next to Geralt until he fell asleep. His last memory was of Marmalade hissing loudly on that fateful night just a few weeks ago – alerting Geralt of Reisel’s presence – and indirectly saving his life.

Eventually, Geralt opened his eyes and looked down at Marmalade, who was cleaning himself – casually and repeatedly licking his paw and then rubbing the paw across his ear.

“You were my very first friend here, Marmalade. And I just want you to know that - no matter what happens after tomorrow, no matter what you may think of me - you’ll always be my friend. Always.”

He picked up his friend, held him briefly in his arms – and only briefly because the cat didn’t like being held – and kissed him on the forehead. He quickly put him back down, and Marmalade immediately left the platform, hurrying away along one of the crossbeams.

“I’m gonna miss you, little buddy,” said Geralt with a sigh. “I’m gonna miss you.”

oOo

Geralt moaned, slowly opened his eyes, and was bombarded with bright light – as if he was outside on a very sunny day - which made him immediately wince and shut them again. He tried to reach up with his right hand to cover his face, but something was keeping his arm locked in place. He tried moving his left arm, but it wouldn’t budge either.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbled weakly. “Is anybody there?”

He knew there was because he could hear them. And, suddenly, through the fog in his brain, he heard a bustle of activity and voices. 

“Easy, Geralt,” came a voice. “Take it easy. We’ll get you loose.”

He felt and heard straps at his wrists being unbuckled, and as soon as one hand was free, he brought it up to cover his closed eyes. He slowly sat up but kept his face shielded.

“Where am I?” he asked in a weak voice. “It’s so bright.”

“Geralt, can you hear me?” came the voice.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Your eyes have gone through a tremendous transformation. They’re very sensitive right now. They’ll eventually be able to adjust to light on their own, but it’ll take a little time.”

“Okay.”

“If you want, you can try to constrict your pupils yourself.”

“What?”

“Just focus on your eyes, and in your mind, make a conscious thought to make the pupils of your eyes smaller. I know that it doesn’t make any sense right now, but just try it, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, doubt clearly in his voice. He tried to do what was asked of him, and a moment later, the bright light dimmed.

“Hey, it worked.”

“Good,” said the voice. “Now, take your hand away and open your eyes.”

Geralt slowly opened his eyes and suddenly recognized where he was – Master Hieronymus’ lab on the second floor of the keep. But he was confused. The cavernous room was quite dim, with only a few lanterns on the walls and a couple of braziers lit in the corners. Why had it been so bright a moment before?

He looked about and noticed that there was a crowd around his bunk. The mage and a half-a-dozen witchers were all staring at him with perplexed looks on their faces.

“What? What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong? Did I almost die or something?”

“No, not at all,” answered Hieronymus. “How are you feeling?”

Geralt paused at the question and paid close attention to his body, taking a mental assessment. He moved his head around on his neck and rolled his shoulders a couple of times. 

“Other than being really thirsty and a little sore…I feel great. Actually, better than great, Master Hieronymus.”

And that was the truth. He’d never felt better in his life. His muscles were buzzing with energy, and all of his senses felt enhanced.

“But…there’s something in the air,” he said, looking up and around. “It feels…I don’t know…different somehow. As if it’s alive.”

“Don’t worry. That’s normal,” said one of the witchers. “It’s the Power. You’ll get used to it.”

Geralt was too engrossed with what was happening to him to see who it was that had spoken.

“So, you’re really in no pain?” asked the mage.

The mention of pain suddenly caused the boy’s mind to flash back, and the memory was so visceral that he immediately turned his head and vomited. However, since there was nothing in his stomach, it was just a dry heave. Eventually, his stomach settled, and he raised his body back upright. As he wiped the spittle from his mouth, he recalled perfectly the agony that he’d been in when they’d first pumped the mysterious elixirs into his veins. In fact, the word ‘agony’ didn’t do it justice. He’d never felt anything like it. It made the whipping that he’d received from Vesemir feel like a stubbed toe. 

“Felt like…my insides were melting,” he said. He noticed that the witchers - who were still staring at him – were nodding their heads. “But, no…no pain now. Just…a little sore, Master Hieronymus.”

“Quite remarkable,” said Hieronymus softly, as if to himself.

“What? What is it?” asked Geralt. “Why are you all staring at me?”

“What is so remarkable,” stated Master Elgar, “is that you’ve seemingly recovered from the Trial of Grasses in less than a day. On average, it takes a month. The fastest I’ve ever seen anyone wake up from the Trials was a week, and even then, he needed another week before he was fully healed.” 

“So…what does that mean?” asked Geralt tentatively.

“I don’t know,” answered the mage, “but I’m going to find out.”

oOo

Geralt spent another day in the mage’s lab, being poked and prodded. Hieronymus drew several vials of blood from the boy and scanned his body numerous times with magical, diagnostic spells. Geralt didn’t know exactly what the sorcerer was looking for, but he knew he must have passed the inspection because, a day later, he was finally released. As he walked down the center aisle of the large lab, all of the empty beds on either side of him didn’t escape his notice. Two days ago, they’d all been filled with the fodder from his cohort. Now, only one bed was occupied, and even its occupant was still in a comatose state. He paused briefly and looked at the boy’s face. He, obviously, recognized him for he’d spent the last year going through training with him, but he couldn’t honestly say that he knew him. Nor, had he known the rest – all the ones who hadn’t survived.

A small thought crept into his mind, telling him that he should be sad about that fact. They were just kids, after all – just like him – and their lives, with all that potential, had been snuffed out, and for what? So that they could one day grow up to be glorified rat-catchers? What a waste, he thought.

But, as he continued to stare at the boy’s face, a spike of anger came out of nowhere and surged through him. He remembered vividly the last year that he’d spent with all of those ‘innocent’ kids. They’d been absolutely no different than every other group of fodder that had come through Kaer Morhen for the past five years. They’d all quickly learned to follow Kalen’s example of taunts and name-calling. A couple of them had spent several weeks beating him up until they’d finally gotten tired of it, and the ones that didn’t beat on him had simply ignored him. No one had wanted to be associated with ‘Piss Boy.’ He realized that, more than likely, if they had survived the Trials, then they’d have turned out just like Kalen.

_‘To hell with them,’_ he told himself. _‘Wish they’d all died.’_

He exited the lab and began traversing the dark and winding halls of the keep. Over the years, he’d been inside the great castle a few times for various reasons – but none of them had been unsupervised visits. That’s when he realized that he was alone, and he was suddenly tempted to begin poking around, for he’d always been a bit curious of what mysteries and secrets the gloomy castle held. But, at the same time, the anger that he’d felt in the lab was still coursing through him, and it quickly doused his desire to explore. For whatever mixed emotions he had about the place, one thing was sure – he loathed it and everything it represented. 

Geralt suddenly felt the strongest desire to get out of the castle, and he began sprinting as fast as he could down the hallways. Within a minute, he made it to the large, six-inch thick, wooden front doors and paused. He put both hands against the left door and prepared to push with all of his might. He knew just how heavy the door was and what effort would be needed. He leaned forward with bent elbows and bent knees and then surged forward with all his strength. The door swung open so easily and quickly that he almost fell on his face. He quickly righted himself and looked at the door – confusion on his face.

And, then, the confusion left, replaced with just the tiniest of smiles. The little velpe flexed his left arm and squeezed the muscle with his right hand. The muscle wasn’t any larger than it’d been two days previous, but it clearly contained strength that he’d never felt before. He slowly reached down with both hands and felt the muscles in his thighs, and then – without even thinking - he immediately took off at a sprint. He had no destination in mind. He just wanted to run. He ran all over the grounds, up and down stairs, atop the ramparts. After five years of training at Kaer Morhen, Geralt was in incredible shape. But he’d never run this fast before - his long, sandy-brown hair blowing in the wind. What’s more, even after five straight minutes of a full-out sprint, he was barely breathing hard with only a slight burning in his lungs and leg muscles. 

Eventually, he made it all the way down to the lowest level of the grounds – to the horses’ stables. By then, his breathing was deep, but he was still experiencing very little pain. He rushed inside the barn and over to his rope. He jumped up on it, grasping it with both his hands and his legs and feet, as he normally did. Suddenly, feeling the power in his arms, he let go of the rope with his legs and feet, letting them dangle straight down. He looked up towards his platform and then began climbing – hand-over-hand – using nothing but his upper-body strength. He stopped half-way up and just held himself there, his muscles contracting tightly. He looked down at the ground, and a smile filled his face.

“This…is…awesome,” he whispered to himself. 

He glanced upward and quickly climbed the rest of the way to the top. He swung his body slightly and landed softly onto his platform. Suddenly, he heard a loud hiss – a hiss coming from his blankets. Marmalade had his body turned sideways, his back arched and all of his hairs standing on end. The large smile suddenly fell from Geralt’s face.

“It’s me, Marmalade. I’m not gonna hurt you…I promise,” he said softly, and he knelt low.

Immediately, the cat hissed again and then darted away along one of the rafters.

Geralt watched him go and then slowly sat down on his pallet of blankets. He had figured that this was how the cat would react to him, but deep down inside, he’d been hoping for a miracle – that he and Marmalade could have been the exception.

“Damn it,” he whispered, shaking his head.

He breathed in deeply and suddenly realized that the odors in the barn were almost overpowering. The smell of the horses – and their dung – was obvious, but he could also pick up another scent that, until that moment, he’d never smelled before. He leaned down and put his face to his blankets. He’d never known that Marmalade had a distinct odor, but there it was. It was unmistakable, and he could smell it now. He sat up straight and closed his eyes.

“You’ll always be my friend, Marmalade.”

He reached up and put his hand to his chest. Under his shirt, he could feel the wooden, fish-shaped pendant resting against his skin.

“You’ll always be my friend,” he said with a sigh.

oOo

“You two may think that the hardest part is now complete,” said Master Elgar,” but the Trial of Grasses was only the first marker on your journey to becoming a fully-qualified witcher. Over the course of the next several years, you will be put through the most intense of training. What you went through as a fodder can’t remotely compare. And there will be several more Trials for you to face – culminating in the Trial of the Medallion.”

The eldest witcher sat behind a long table in the great hall, and there were four other witchers sitting to his left and right. In front of the witcher cadre stood Geralt and Fedun – the only other fodder from Geralt’s cohort to have survived the Trials. 

“But make no mistake – receiving your medallion is no foregone conclusion. You will have to earn it. You will be constantly evaluated by your instructors in all of the subject areas,” he said, motioning both hands to the witchers sitting next to him, “Disappointing any of them will result in harsh discipline. And with a now-mutated body, believe me – you will be able to endure a tremendous amount of discipline.

“In addition, towards the end of your training – years from now – you will have to pass a penultimate test. This will be a series of training exercises graded by all the cadre here at Kaer Morhen to determine if you are even worthy of attempting the Trial of the Medallion. If any instructor here deems you unfit, then you will go through another year of training.”

The master witcher reached down with a hand and lifted the wolf-head medallion from his chest.

“This is not simply some shiny trinket or magical bauble. It is symbol…of the _highest_ level of professionalism. Wolf School witchers are renown in every corner of the Continent – from tiny villages in back wood swamps all the way to royal courts - and I will not let _anyone_ walk out our front gates wearing one of these if I believe, for an instant, that they will besmirch the reputation that we have worked centuries to establish. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Master Elgar,” the velpen responded.

“Now, becoming a velpe isn’t without benefits,” continued Elgar. “You will get double rations at all meals. You will also receive daily potions from Master Hieronymus to promote your physical growth and senses. You will have unlimited access to any of the tomes in the keep’s libraries. That is in addition to the bestiary that you will be given for your personal use.”

At that, he nodded at two stacks of books in front of him.

“And I haven’t even mentioned the twin swords, witcher armor, and trusty mount you will eventually receive. 

“But, ultimately, the most important thing that you will receive is purpose. We will be giving you a career – and not just any career. Anyone can farm. Anyone can sling drinks in a tavern. You, on the other hand, will have a career of value…of significant worth. When you leave here, you will be one of the most highly-educated, highly trained individuals walking the planet, and you will possess a very unique set of skills. Skills that virtually no one else has. Skills that will be incredibly sought after, that will allow you to put money in your pockets – and in our pockets. In the world out there, there will always be a need for a witcher and his sword.”

A few minutes later, Geralt and Fedun were dismissed and exited the front doors of the keep. They’d each been given a satchel, which they were both wearing around their necks and which held their bestiaries and a couple of other texts. As Geralt began to descend the front steps, he heard the other velpe speak from behind him.

“Hey, Piss…I mean…Geralt,” Fedun said.

The shorter velpe turned around.

“You wanna…I don’t know…hang out or look through the bestiary or something?”

Geralt stared at the boy for several moments before slowly walking back up the steps and standing in front of him.

“You and I have been around each other for almost a year now. During that time, _not once_ did you ever show me kindness. Countless times I saw you laughing as others mocked me. _Never_ did you step in when I was getting pummeled. And now…now that all of your friends are dead and cold…now you wanna be friends? Why…because now you’re all alone? Well, boo-bloody-hoo, Fedun. Learn to live with it.”

Geralt then turned and began descending the stairs.

“Screw you, Piss Boy! It’s no wonder you have no friends!” 

“With a friend like you, I’d rather be alone,” he answered as he walked away.

oOo

Geralt quickly climbed the rope into the stable’s rafters and hopped onto his platform. Marmalade, who had been lounging on his blanket, hissed and then scampered away. The velpe sighed because, after the day he’d just gone through, sitting for a while and petting his old friend would have been quite helpful. Just having Marmalade close and listening to him purr had always calmed him down. 

He had woken up excited – looking forward to the day ahead – his first day of real, witcher training. But his excitement had been quickly extinguished. That morning, while gathering in front of the barrack’s assembly area, waiting for physical training to begin, he’d caught the eye of several PM’s staring at him. In the last couple of weeks, he’d seen them looking at him in the barracks whenever he went there for meals, but he’d always grabbed his food and left before any of them could confront him. 

As five or six of the velpen approached him, he realized just from the looks on their faces that they weren’t coming over to give him a warm welcome. He knew every one of them – even the oldest of the bunch who had to be close to fifteen years of age – because he’d gone through fodder training with them all, and all of them were at least a foot taller than he was - even the youngest, who’d only gone through the Trials two years before.

“Well, well, it’s Piss Boy,” said one of the velpen named Miro. He then looked to those around him. “Can you believe it? Piss Boy actually survived the Trials.”

“Pretty unbelievable,” answered another velpe.

“Yeah, they must have made the elixirs less deadly for him to make it,” said a third.

“We better watch what we say, Miro. Remember, Piss Boy’s a killer.”

“That’s right. We might end just like Reisel,” said someone in the group.

Several of the PM’s laughed.

Miro looked down at Geralt, a small smile still on his face.

“Is that right, Piss Boy? You a stone-cold killer?”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just stood still, staring the much bigger velpe in the eyes.

Miro quickly raised his hand, his index finger extended. He then slowly moved it forward until it was just a couple of inches away from Geralt’s face. Despite that, Geralt still didn’t move – his eyes never wavering. Suddenly, Miro thrust his hand forward, poking Geralt right in the middle of the forehead. It wasn’t hard enough to knock Geralt down, but it did snap his head back.

“How ‘bout now, Piss Boy?” asked Miro, the smile no longer on his face. “You gonna kill me now?”

Before Geralt could answer, the cadre showed up and started their morning exercises. And though nothing happened the rest of the day beyond snide remarks and taunts, it still soured Geralt’s enthusiasm.

_‘Not a damn thing has changed,’_ he’d thought at the time as they got ready to run the Gauntlet. Since surviving the Trials he’d been hoping that since he was no longer a fodder and no longer had Kalen as an instructor that things might be different. He now knew that he’d been a fool to be so optimistic. As long as he was at Kaer Morhen, he’d always be known as ‘Piss Boy.’

There was, however, one moment in the day that no one – not even the other velpen – could tarnish. That afternoon, after lunch, he’d headed up to the inner courtyard. On the east side of the castle, near the pendulums, was the velpen’s sword-training area, and he knew that he would never forget the moment that Master Vesemir put a real sword in his hand for the first time. Because of his height, the sword was a bit shorter than everyone else’s, but Geralt didn’t care. He finally had a real, witcher’s sword – not a training sword – forged of steel. He’d been mesmerized at the sight – just staring at it, held flat in both his hands – the pommel in his right hand, the tip in his left.

“As you grow, you’ll get longer swords to fit your size,” said Vesemir, bringing Geralt out of his almost hypnotic trance. “But you’ll use these for now.”

“Yes, Master Vesemir,” he’d answered.

“Remember this – the both of you,” said Vesemir, also looking at Fedun. “Your swords aren’t just weapons. For a witcher…they’re your life. So, I expect you to take better care of your swords than you do your own cocks. I’ll do routine and random inspections on your blades. If I ever find them to be dull or even have a speck of dust on them, it’s your ass. And if I ever see you damaging your swords in any way, you’ll be stuck with training swords for a year. Understood?”

After answering in the affirmative, they’d commenced with their first lesson, and that first lesson had been an eye-opener for Geralt, just as all his lessons that day had been. But, unquestionably, the biggest eye-opener of the day had been what had happened that morning before physical training with Miro and the others. And what had been driven home for him was that, ultimately, nothing had changed. Yes, he was a velpe now, and, yes, he had enhanced physical senses and abilities, but compared to every other velpen, he was still just a little boy. Heck, even Fedun was bigger and stronger than he was despite them being the same age. And that meant that he would always be at their mercy. Or, it would, unless he could somehow negate their advantage. 

As he sat there that night on his pallet of blankets high up in the rafters, he thought back over the past year to his sword training with Master Barin. Even though he was one of the smallest fodder, Geralt knew without a doubt that he’d been the most skilled of the group when it came to wielding their swords. And he also knew that his top standing in the cohort was only due to the hours of extra practice that he’d put in every night on his own.

He sat there for a moment and then retrieved his bestiary from his satchel. While the other books he’d received would eventually be passed on to new PM’s, the bestiary was his to keep. So, he opened up the cover and took out a writing utensil. On the inside cover, he began to write out a schedule. An hour of sword drills. An hour of studying his bestiary. An hour working on witcher Signs. An hour of alchemy followed by two hours of meditation. He added an hour of extra physical training – on the pendulums and doing pull-ups, push-ups and other exercises to improve his strength. He eventually filled out the schedule until every hour of the day was filled with some activity – even if the activity was seemingly mundane like eating or meditation. He knew that food and rest would be needed to help him achieve his ultimate goal. And he hoped that witcher meditation would allow him to completely rejuvenate his body. He’d been plagued by nightmares for years so he was hoping for an alternative to sleep.

Geralt knew that he’d probably make adjustments to the schedule as time passed, but he nodded his head as he looked at the page in front of him, satisfied with the initial plan. He’d get his freedom – finally free of Kaer Morhen and, one day, free to be his own man - or he’d die trying.

oOo

_Day 3 – Dothan; February 1194_

Geralt heard a loud banging noise and groaned. A second later, two palace guards opened the door and entered his new bedchamber.

“Witcher Geralt,” said one of them. “King Travid requests an audience.”

The teen blinked his eyes several times and slowly lifted his torso off of the mattress.

“What time is it?” he mumbled.

“Just after eight bells.”

Geralt glanced toward the window to see the sun shining and groaned again. It was no wonder he felt like hell. He’d maybe gotten two hours of sleep, and his head was killing him.

“Alright…alright. I’m coming.”

Ten minutes later, he was sitting across from Travid in an enormous study. It dwarfed the one that he’d been in yesterday with Prince Mathias. And there looked to be more books on the shelves than were in all of Kaer Morhen’s libraries. If this was the study, he couldn’t imagine how big the actual palace library must be.

“Just what in the hell happened last night, witcher?”

Geralt looked at the king, who already appeared to be half-drunk despite the early hour. 

_‘Well, who am I to judge?’_ he asked himself. _‘I may still be border-line drunk myself.’_

He then glanced at Sir Alyn who was standing off to the side. If it was possible, the man looked even worse than he had the previous day. A part of the teen wanted to hate the knight for courting Delyla, but at the moment, he just couldn’t seem to muster the strength. Besides, except for the first couple of times that they had spoken, the captain seemed to now treat Geralt with respect, as an equal - which the teen appreciated. And Geralt couldn’t really blame the man, could he? If he was in Sir Alyn’s shoes, he’d have definitely pursued Delyla, too. And he couldn’t really find fault with Deylya being receptive to Sir Alyn either. The man was a knight and the captain of the palace guard, after all. How could a teenage witcher compete with that? 

Finally, the witcher looked back at the king and began recounting the events from the day prior. However, just as he’d told himself he’d do, he did exclude anything pertaining to Mathias and Rojet’s relationship.

“For the love of Lebioda!” exclaimed the king. “Why in the world would Rojet attack you like that? Do you think he’s behind the killings?”

“It would make sense. Otherwise, why do it, right?” lied Geralt. “Maybe he thought I was getting close to finding out something and wanted to take action before I did. Of course, I don’t know what that ‘something’ might be. I mean, I searched through his lab and living quarters last night for hours and didn’t find anything connecting him with the monster attacks.”

“That’s it?” asked the king. “No other leads?”

At that point, Geralt mentioned his meeting with Ambassador Hintz and the diplomat’s obvious attempt at bribery. The chance of having any sort of coherent meeting evaporated after that. The king began ranting and raving about usurpers and having every last Rivian in the city arrested. The teen tried to explain that just because Hintz didn’t want the monster caught didn’t mean that he was somehow behind the attacks themselves. The king didn’t seem to want to listen to that argument, but Geralt thought that at least Captain Birke had seen the logic to the statement. The meeting ended a few minutes later with the witcher telling them both that he had a few more lines to pursue and that he’d give them another update at the end of the day. The truth was that the teen wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do next in relation to the contract. What he really just wanted to do at the moment was get some food in his stomach. The thought made him feel a bit queasy, but he knew that he’d need the nourishment if he was going to make it through the day.

oOo

“Sara, that palace is cursed, I tell ya,” said an old woman.

“Oh, dear Lebioda, here we go again,” replied Sara.

After leaving the meeting with Travid and Birke, Geralt had commenced his search for food. He’d considered heading down to the palace kitchens, but then he realized that he might run into Delyla. And that thought made him feel even worse than he already did. He may have been slightly inebriated during their last conversation, but he remembered everything – including their kiss. He felt like such a fool now, and she probably thought he was, too. He wished that he’d never kissed her. Their relationship had been great before, and then he’d had to go and ruin it. Therefore, he’d decided to leave the palace and venture into the city. And that’s how he wound up in a tavern in the middle of Anisberg forcing himself to eat a giant, greasy breakfast. He was also eavesdropping on the conversation between two ladies at the table behind him. Because his back was to them, he couldn’t see what they looked like, but he could hear them clearly.

“Lyle, you’ve been saying that for weeks now,” continued Sara.

“And I’m right. First, the queen dies mysteriously. Then, a month later, the princess, too. And the monarchy is being all secretive about it. But my neighbor’s niece has a friend that works at the palace and she says that it was a _monster attack_.”

She whispered the last two words.

“I know, Lyle, I know. If I’ve heard that story from you once, I’ve heard it a hundred times.”

“Well…what about last night?”

“What about it?”

“There was a fire.”

“I know that. The whole city knows.”

“Well, I heard…I heard that _someone was killed_.”

Geralt heard one of the ladies – he assumed Sara - scooch her chair across the floor.

“Really?” asked Sara in a whisper.

“Yeah, my butcher’s son has a friend whose brother works in the stables there. He saw the body.”

“Well, who was it? Was it the king?”

“I…well, I don’t know. They didn’t have that detail. But, that’s something, right?”

“It is. It is.”

“It’s a curse, I tell ya. The king’s brought this down on himself and his family. And you know why, right?”

“The cannibalism,” said Sara in a hushed voice. “Oh, tell the story again. I love it.”

Geralt furrowed his brows.

_‘Cannibalism?’_ he said to himself. _‘Did I hear that right?’_

“Well, as you know, my neighbor’s niece’s friend works in the palace – or she did until she quit just recently – and she swears she saw it. Two years ago, the king was having his annual Midinvaerne party. Everybody who’s anybody was there. All the royal court, the wealthiest businessmen of the city, even the local ambassadors from Rivia and Lyria. After dinner, the wine was flowing and the entertainment began. There were minstrels, poets, magicians, and dancers. And, then, late in the evening, the king suddenly announced a special surprise, and the guards brought in a young girl – a virgin dancer who had entertained the group earlier in the evening. She was butchered - sliced into pieces and served on silver platters. Instead of being repulsed, all the guests and the royal court devoured the flesh, and then the king called in a hundred concubines for an orgy.”

“Oh, dear. I just - I just can’t imagine.”

“I know, I know. It was abhorrent. An offense to the gods, and so they cursed King Travid and his family. There will be more deaths at the palace. Just mark my words, Sara. Mark my words.”

Shortly after that, the two women left, and Geralt was alone with his thoughts and his greasy breakfast.

_‘What the hell was that about?’_ thought Geralt _. ‘That can’t be true, can it?’_

To be on the safe side, he decided that he probably needed to ask Delyla about it – well, perhaps, Birke instead since he couldn’t yet bring himself to face the woman again. But he definitely needed to verify it with somebody. Because, if that story was true, then it could’ve been a catalyst for a dark curse. And he definitely needed to find out what the virgin said before she died. She actually might have invoked a curse by accident – especially since it happened on Midinvaerne. The witcher knew that the mid-winter solstice was a special night of the year when the mystical Chaos known as magic was at its most powerful.

Geralt was still pondering over the story when the front door of the tavern burst open and slammed against the wall.

“Witcher! There you are!” shouted one of the palace guards. “We’ve been looking all over the city for you!”

“What is it?” asked the teen standing up.

“The monster! It’s down by the river!”


	10. Chapter 10

_Kaer Morhen – 1189_

_‘…and so King Ryman tasked his younger brother, Prince Eads, with solving what he called the “monster dilemma.” And as the fates would have it, I already had the ear of the young prince, who just so happened to be a lover of the arcane._

_‘For months, I had enthralled the prince with my revolutionary theories regarding the possibility of enhancing human capabilities through the use of alchemy and magic. Unfortunately, despite their immense power and potential, the arcane arts are still viewed through a prism of suspicion. That the uneducated peasants are such ignorant fools is no surprise. They have been so fully duped by the various priests and “holy men” into believing that magic is an abomination. Well, of course, they disparage and curse it – because it is real! – as opposed to their fairy tales and silly myths of imaginary gods, devils, and angels. What codswallop! Why can’t people see that religion is nothing but a scam – concocted for no other reason than to control the masses and pilfer their money! But I digress. What is more disturbing than the unwashed rubes’ gullibility is that the kingdom’s elite – the nobles, the members of the royal court, the military commanders - are also still so wary and suspicious of anyone who can wield the Power. Oh, how I long for the day when the world is finally enlightened! But, again, I digress. I therefore suggested to the prince that we conduct our new experiments in a secluded area of the kingdom, away from prying eyes and small-minded prejudices. After looking at the map, he chose to build a walled castle in the far northeast of the land, high in the Blue Mountains._

_‘All we needed to do next was to convince the king to fund our research - a hundred gold bars, his best engineers, five hundred conscripted laborers, and two-dozen orphaned boys. He agreed to it all except for the gold. The prince reasonably argued that everything in life – even the solution to the “monster dilemma” - comes with a cost, but he still balked at the price. However, he eventually relented when Prince Eads assured him that it would be a one-time investment only. Our monster-killers – I’m still not sure what we should call them – “slayers” or “hexers,” perhaps – it matters not at the moment, I suppose - our trained killers will charge the peasants monetary sums for vanquishing the local monsters, and they will use the profits for both the maintenance of the castle and also to fund further experiments._

_‘And the king agreed! I still can’t believe it! For decades, I’ve dreamt of…’_

Geralt continued reading until he came to the end of the journal entry and then gently closed the dusty tome, being careful not to damage the dry and crumbling pages.

“Huh,” whispered Geralt to himself. “I guess that’s where ‘No coin, no killing,’ came from.” 

For the past several months, part of his nightly routine was visiting the second-floor library of the keep and perusing the shelves for any book that caught his eye. Tonight, he’d found the leather-bound journal of a young mage named Marlen, who – if his writings could be believed – deserved credit for creating the very first witchers.

_‘Well, either credit or blame’_ , the young velpe thought to himself after reading the journal entry.

Geralt put the journal back on the shelf where he’d found it and walked to a nearby window. He slowly opened it and hopped over the windowsill onto a three-inch ledge below. After shutting the pane closed, he paused for just a moment to glance up at the moon directly overhead. With a nod, he stepped off the ledge, turned in mid-air, and arrested his fall by catching the ledge with his hands. He slowly descended the vertical wall of the keep – his fingertips searching for slender creases between the stones. Finally, once he was about ten feet from the ground, he pushed off the wall and fell headfirst. Right before impacting the ground, he bent his arms at the elbows, turned his head and shoulder, curled his body into a ball, and after a quick roll, came up on the balls of his feet. He immediately took off at a sprint for the other side of the castle to train on the pendulums. After working on his agility, balance and strength for what he guessed to be an hour, he was breathing heavy and dripping with sweat. The velpe then began jogging towards the barn, looking forward to stripping down, pouring a bucket of water over his body to cool off, and spending a couple of hours practicing alchemy in one of the empty horse stalls. 

Geralt was running along the top of the ramparts – taking a short-cut back to the stables – when he suddenly stopped short. Just up ahead, he could see someone sitting all alone on a stool, facing out toward the mountain valley below. Clouds had just covered the moon and the person’s face was turned away so he didn’t know who it was, but he knew it had to be an instructor. No other velpen – and certainly no fodder – roamed the grounds in the middle of the night. Regardless of which instructor it might be, though, Geralt had no interest in speaking with him. The teen was just about to turn around and find an alternate way to the stables when he heard a gruff voice speak out in the darkness.

“Who’s there?”

Geralt thought that he recognized the voice as Master Vesemir’s, but something was odd about it. 

The velpe approached his instructor, and just then the winds blew the clouds towards the east, leaving the moon exposed and allowing the moonlight to illuminate the night. Geralt saw Vesemir’s face change – his eyes widening slightly – and the old man quickly sucked in his breath.

“Laramir?” he asked in a hoarse, slurred voice.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the old man and continued walking forward.

“No, Master Vesemir. It’s me…Geralt.”

Vesemir blinked his eyes several times and slowly shook his head. Now, standing closer to the old witcher, Geralt could easily detect the scent of alcohol. His training in alchemy had taught him that smell. He looked down towards Vesemir’s feet to see a large, open jug.

“Of course…of course…Geralt. Come here…and have a seat, Geralt.”

The velpe really wanted to be on his way – particularly since he’d never forgiven the bastard for whipping him the year prior. But drunk or not, Master Vesemir was still a witcher cadre member and had to be obeyed at all times.

“Yes, Master Vesemir,” said Geralt before sitting down, his back against the short, stone wall of the parapet.

Vesemir kept staring at the boy, not saying a word for several awkward moments. He reached down for the jug and took a big swig before placing the container in his lap.

“Did you know that you’re the spitting image of my brother?”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “No, Master Vesemir. I didn’t.”

“Yep, you are. Laramir…we were what’s called Redanian twins. Know what that means?”

“No, I don’t, Master Vesemir.”

“Huh…kids know nothing these days. Means we were born less than a year a part. He…he was supposed to be a witcher.”

He took another drink.

“Is that right, Master Vesemir?”

“Yep…that’s right,” answered the gray-haired witcher, nodding his head vigorously. “When I was ten, Laramir nine, our old man was out one night…got attacked by some…well, I don’t remember…guess it doesn’t matter. Attacked by some monsters. Got saved by a witcher, but afterward, the witcher demanded payment. ‘No coin, no killing,’ right? But…we were dirt poor…or, rather, my folks were dirt poor. They just took me and Laramir along for the ride.”

Vesemir snorted at that and took another drink. Geralt watched the old man closely, never taking his eyes off of him. He’d never seen this side of the grumpy witcher. He wasn’t even sure what to think.

“Anyhow, my pa had no coin to give him, so the witcher…Zander was his name. Amazing, isn’t…two hundred years later, and I still remember his name. Zander invoked the Law of Surprise. ‘First thing you see when you get home is mine.’ Course, the old man agreed. What could he do? Zander had just saved his life. So, they walked in the front door of our little hut…Laramir and I were sitting at the kitchen table, and I looked up…and saw the old man’s eyes land right on Laramir, my little brother.

“He was my best friend, little Laramir was. So close in age…well, we were pretty much inseparable. I mean, yeah, we got into our share of fights, but if anyone else came at either of us, there’d be hell to pay. Know what I mean?”

Vesemir snorted again.

“Course you do. Anyway, ol’ Zander asked my pa, ‘Who’d you see first?’ Before he could even answer, my ma’s asking all these questions, wanting to know what the hell’s going on…because my pa’s clothes were ripped…had some blood on him. Pa explained everything to her…to us…what happened, and she starts bawling. Then Zander asks my pa again who he saw first. My pa…he was about to open his mouth, and I jumped in. ‘It’s okay, Pa,’ I said. ‘I know the truth. I saw you lookin’ right at me when you walked in the door.’ He had the most confused look on his face, but I looked him in the eyes and nodded, and then…and then he understood. So, my little brother stayed with the family, and I left with Zander. And that…that is the story of Laramir, who was supposed to be a witcher. Damn, I loved him.”

Vesemir sighed and dropped his head. After a moment, he grabbed the jug and took a long gulp from it.

“And you…you look just like him.”

After that, the silence hung in the air for almost a minute – the two of them both lost in their thoughts.

“Did you ever see him again?” Geralt eventually asked.

Vesemir stared into Geralt’s eyes before finally giving a slow nod. And then, suddenly, he swayed and fell off of the stool, the jug falling out of his lap and smashing on the stone walkway. Immediately, Geralt jumped up and looked down at the scene. Vesemir was on his back, his eyes closed, and he was breathing loudly and heavily out of his open mouth.

Geralt was about to walk away when he noticed that Vesemir’s head - and his swords - were right in the middle of the puddle of alcohol. He looked back down at his instructor’s face and let out an audible sigh. A second later, he knelt down and unbuckled the scabbard strap across the front of Vesemir’s chest. He rolled him over onto his side and removed the swords from his back. He took off his own shirt and used it to wipe the alcohol off of the scabbards and off of the hilts of the swords. After leaning the swords against the side of the parapet wall, he knelt down again, grabbed the unconscious man underneath his arms, and dragged him out of the puddle of vodka and away from the broken shards of the ceramic jug. Geralt gave his sword instructor one last look and then turned and walked slowly back to the stables – the entire way, re-evaluating every thought that he’d ever had about the old curmudgeon.

oOo

The next afternoon at their training session, neither Geralt nor Vesemir addressed the previous evening’s conversation. They both acted as if they hadn’t even seen each other the night before, and Vesemir was his typical self – growling critiques at everyone, Geralt included, about their less than perfect technique in wielding their swords. And over the next several months, Geralt never again saw his sword instructor out – drunk or otherwise - during any of his late-night workouts around the castle grounds. However, one day in the late summer, just after their sword training had ended, Vesemir called out Geralt’s name.

“Master Elgar wants to see you,” he said. “Come with me.”

On the way up to the castle, Vesemir didn’t say another word, and though Geralt was wracking his mind trying to figure out what the eldest witcher could want, he kept his questions to himself. Thus, the two of them walked in silence for several minutes. Geralt kept glancing out of the corner of his eye at his instructor as they made their way to the meeting, and the velpe thought that the old witcher’s face appeared even more stern and more displeased than usual – and that was saying something.

_‘Great. Just great,’_ thought Geralt. _‘Just what did I do now?’_

Shortly, he was standing in front of Elgar, Vesemir, and the castle’s senior mage – Master Hieronymus – as they sat behind a table in the first-floor library.

“It looks like you’re finally growing some,” said Master Elgar, starting off the conversation.

Though Geralt hated the old man sitting in front of him – truth is, he told himself that he hated everyone at Kaer Morhen - he still felt a small surge of pride inside at the remark. For it was true. He had gone through a small growth spurt in the last few months. He was still the smallest velpen by far, but last month, he’d had to search through the clothes closet in the barracks to find some slightly longer trousers. But, even though the eldest witcher’s remark had made him feel good about himself, there wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to smile because…well, screw them, that’s why.

“Yes, Master Elgar,” he said with a stoic face.

The witcher then turned and looked at the mage, giving him a nod.

“And how are you feeling – physically?” asked Hieronymus, licking his lips.

Geralt didn’t like the tone in the mage’s voice or the look on his face. The old wizard was leaning forward in his chair, and his eyes had a spark of excitement in them. Geralt felt like a bug being examined by some collector.

“I feel fine, Master Hieronymus.”

“No lingering pain…or negative side effects from the Trials?”

Geralt furrowed his brow at the mage and slowly shook his head.

“No, Master Hieronymus.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” said the mage, and then he turned towards Elgar. “I’ll run some tests first, of course,”

“How about we just get on with it…and tell the boy already?” barked Vesemir.

Elgar glanced at Vesemir and spoke.

“Very well. Geralt, if you remember, your recovery from the Trials was extraordinary. So extraordinary, in fact, that we believe you are an excellent candidate for a second set of experiments that Master Hieronymus here has been working on for decades…and has been refining over the last year. Now, as he has just said, he’ll need to run a battery of tests on you first – hopefully, to discover just why it is you were able to recover so well - but we’d like you to undergo this new Trial as soon as possible. Do you have any questions about this?”

“I don’t suppose that I have a choice in the matter, do I, Master Elgar?”

“No. No you don’t.”

“Right,” he said. “So, then…what is the purpose of this new Trial, Master Elgar?”

Elgar looked at the mage.

“My hope,” said Hieronymus, “is that it will enhance your physical abilities to…levels never seen before.”

“Which,” interjected Elgar, “will give our witchers a better chance of survival on the Path, which, in turn, will allow them to earn more coin to keep Kaer Morhen functioning.”

Geralt didn’t give a damn about that so he looked at the mage.

“So, I’ll be faster and stronger than every other witcher?”

Hieronymus nodded. “That’s the goal.”

“Okay. I’m in,” he answered immediately.

“Boy, don’t you even want to know the risks?” asked Vesemir.

Geralt looked at all three of them.

“I’m assuming death, right?”

Elgar and Hieronymus nodded.

“Yes, that’s right,” said Vesemir. “Not a single candidate has _ever_ survived this special experiment…have they, Hieronymus?”

“Well, yes, that’s true. They all perished, but none of them were like Geralt here, either. None recovered from the Trial of Grasses like he did. And, as Elgar said, I have been refining the process these past few months – ever since Geralt’s exceptional recovery.” 

The velpe stared each man in the eyes and finally nodded his head.

“There are worse things than dying…so let’s do it.”

A smile came to Hieronymus’ face, but Vesemir furrowed his brows at Geralt.

“How old are you now?” he asked.

Geralt shrugged and slowly shook his head.

“I don’t know, Master Vesemir. What month and year is it?” 

Vesemir told him the date.

“Huh,” he said, “I turned twelve last month.” 

“Twelve…and you’re not afraid of dying?”

“I didn’t say that, Master Vesemir. I said that there are _worse things_ than dying.”

“Is that right?” asked Vesemir. “Like what? Tell me exactly, boy…what’s worse than death?”

The room was completely quiet as the two of them stared directly into each other’s eyes, and Geralt’s first instinct was to lie, to deflect. He could count on one finger the number of people he’d actually trusted in his seven years at Kaer Morhen, and none of the three currently sitting in front of him was that one. And during those same years, a lot of people had forced him to do a lot of things that he hadn’t wanted to do. But no one – absolutely no one - could ever force him to divulge his personal thoughts and feelings about anything. And he hadn’t, not since Eugene’s death.

But, as he continued to look at the old man, that night atop the rampart from all those months ago suddenly popped into Geralt’s head. The night when he’d heard a drunken – and vulnerable - moment of honesty about a little brother named Laramir. Geralt didn’t know why Vesemir had shared that story with him, but he had, for whatever reason. And, suddenly, in that moment, the velpe changed his mind. He suddenly felt the urge to tell the old witcher just what he thought was worse than death. He dropped his gaze as he made up his mind, and he gave a small nod and slowly lifted his eyes back up to meet Vesemir’s.

“Guilt…shame…fear,” he said softly, his stare never wavering. “They’re all worse… take your pick.”

Vesemir continued to stare at Geralt, but the old witcher didn’t respond so the velpe eventually swallowed and looked over at the mage.

“I’m ready when you are.”

oOo

_Day 3 – Dothan, February 1194_

Geralt spurred his borrowed horse and galloped through the streets of Anisberg. Right in front of him was the palace guard, guiding the way towards the river and shouting at the top of his lungs, “Make way! Make way!” A few minutes later, the two riders flew through the southern gate of the city, and the witcher immediately veered his horse to the right and pulled even with the guard in order to avoid all the dirt and mud that the lead horse was kicking up.

“The next road coming up!” the guard shouted, and at the next intersection, the two riders reined their mounts hard to the left, straight toward the Yaruga. Up ahead, the witcher could see a few huts and cabins near the river’s edge and a large crowd of people blocking the road. The guard began shouting again and, instantly, the crowded parted. Geralt shot through the mass of villagers and immediately jerked back on his reins. He was out of the saddle with his sword in hand before his horse had even come to a complete stop. He didn’t even have to ask where the monster in question was. He could hear hissing and screeching coming from inside the hovel nearest the river. There were a handful of men at the door, successfully keeping it closed, and several other men with lit torches were at the hut’s windows, waving the flames back and forth any time the beast inside came near.

The witcher quickly moved to one of the cabin’s windows and looked inside. He sighed at what he saw and immediately headed to the front of the hut.

“When I tell you to move, you move,” he ordered the men at the door, and then he cast as Quen Sign.

“Now!” he shouted. “Move back!”

The men who’d been keeping the door closed immediately scurried away. A moment later, the door opened, a monster jumped out and let loose with a horrendous screech.

The witcher blasted forth a continuous stream of Igni fire, and the beast ignited, its screeching and howls intensifying. As the monster thrashed its arms about, trying to put out the flames, Geralt skipped forward two steps and thrust his blade right through the creature’s heart. A moment later, he withdrew the blade, and while the monster was falling face-first towards the ground, the witcher, in a flash, swung his blade right through its neck. Greenish-blue blood squirted from the monster’s neck hole, and its head flew through the air, landing several paces away at the feet of the crowd. Several people wretched while the others quickly backed away from the gruesome head.

As the witcher hopped over the still-smoldering corpse and entered the cabin, he heard someone in the crowd say, “Well, that was kind of…anticlimactic.”

Inside of the hovel, he saw two fresh corpses – a woman and a young girl – that had been mutilated and feasted upon. He turned around, exited the hut and immediately noticed the large crowd – villagers and guards alike – staring at him wide-eyed.

“It’s just a drowner, but they’re rarely by themselves. They typically travel in packs of four to five. So, you all need to go home and lock your doors until the ‘all clear’ is given. And you,” said Geralt, pointing to one of the guards. “Go get Doctor Dermitt and bring him down here, please.”

The teen was about to head down to the river to look for tracks, but after taking a step, he realized that no one had moved.

“I said – Go home! Now! If you know what’s good for you!”

He figured the look on his face must have been terrifying because, instantly, everyone scattered at once. 

For the next half hour, the witcher investigated the northern bank of the Yaruga, but he only found one set of drowner tracks. Strange, he thought. Why was it alone? Why did it leave its nest? He shook his head, unsure of the answer. Maybe it was just an accident – it might have gotten caught in the strong currents and sent down river by itself. He didn’t suppose that it really mattered. What mattered was that it wasn’t the monster. It was _a_ monster, for sure, but it was not _the_ monster that he was looking for. He had no doubt about that. Drowners – as the one he’d just killed had so clearly demonstrated – loved to feast on their prey. And the queen and princess’s corpses had been free of bite marks.

By the time he got back to the cabin, Doctor Dermitt was there. 

“Thanks for coming down. So, what do you think, Doc?” asked the teen.

“Not our monster.”

“Agreed. But I still wanted you to take a look. You can back me up if Travid or Birke ask.”

“So, what are you going to do next?” asked the royal physician.

“Next? I’m taking that drowner’s organs. But after that? I’m going to an alchemist. Is there one in town?”

Dermitt nodded.

“Excellent. Just give me directions.”

oOo

Geralt, with his small, wooden, alchemy box under his arm, opened the door to the shop and heard a little bell ring right above him.

“Well, well, I’d heard that there was a witcher in town,” said a middle-aged woman behind a counter. She had a plain face and her brown hair pulled up into a bun. “I wondered if he’d stop by my shop….and here you are.”

“Yeah, here I am.”

The teen quickly scanned his surroundings. The room was filled with bottles and jars of every shape and size. There didn’t seem to be an empty space anywhere on any shelf or table. He recognized almost all of the contents within the various containers.

_‘Good,’_ he thought. _‘Maybe she’ll have what I need.’_

“Name’s Geralt,” he said looking at the woman. “And this may be your lucky day.”

The woman smiled. “I’m Georgina, and that’s what I like to hear.”

The witcher told her what he needed while she quickly wrote down all the items on a small pad. And the longer he talked, the wider her smile grew. 

Eventually, when he was done, she asked, “That’s quite the list. Are you sure you have the coin to cover it all?”

The teen honestly didn’t know. He’d never bought alchemical ingredients before.

“Not sure. How much will it be?”

Her eyes scanned the list again.

“Twenty Dothan crowns.”

Geralt winced. That was forty percent of his advance. 

_‘Well, it’s gotta be done,’_ he thought. _‘Plus, once the contract’s complete, I’ll get another five hundred.’_

“I do,” he said with a nod. “You wouldn’t happen to have a lab or back room where I could work, do you?”

“As a matter a fact, I do. I usually charge a small fee for a person to rent it out, but…with what you’re buying, I’ll let you use it free of charge.”

And with that, the witcher got to work.

Earlier, while he’d been investigating the river’s bank for drowner tracks, he’d realized that the first thing that he should have done after being hired was to craft some potions, oils, and bombs. The fact that he’d now had to pull his sword twice in the past twelve hours showed just how quickly and unexpectedly a fight could come. Who knew when he’d have to draw his sword again, but when it came, he wanted to be better prepared. Plus, if he was honest with himself, instead of getting drunk – or in addition to getting drunk - he should have downed a health potion last night after the fight with Rojet. His mutated body healed exponentially faster than a normal human body, but even so, his ankle was still a bit sore from when he had jumped off of his second-story balcony. He wasn’t sure if a bone was cracked or if it was simply soft-tissue damage, but either way, a healing potion would’ve sped up the recovery drastically.

Now, to be fair, his lack of alchemical ingredients was not entirely his fault – he said to himself, trying to justify his actions. First, he’d used up all of his supplies on the leshen contract two months back, and he had simply never had the chance to restock his supplies since then – mostly due to the fact that it was still winter. Plants just weren’t blooming yet. He’d actually tried to look for alchemical ingredients since leaving Kaer Morhen, but they just weren’t available. In fact, the entire first month of the year, snow had covered all of Rivia so there was simply no way he could have filled his alchemy box. 

_‘But all that’s water under the bridge,’_ he thought. _‘I’m here now, so lesson learned.’_

He spent the rest of the afternoon in Georgina’s back lab brewing numerous potions and oils and crafting various explosives. The process was taking so long simply because he still didn’t know exactly what he was dealing with. Thus, he brewed oils for cursed monsters, vampires, golems, and specters, and crafted a variety of bombs – one each of Moon Dust, Dimeritium, Northern Wind, Dancing Star, and Devil’s Puffball.

In the middle of the afternoon, Georgina came back into the lab with a cup of cider and a sandwich.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Hey, thanks,” said the teen, and then he scarfed down the food.

“You know – I’m quite knowledgeable and skilled in alchemy – if I may say so – but even I have no idea what it is you’re crafting. But…you won’t tell me, will you?”

Geralt swallowed some cider and shook his head.

“Not really supposed to. Trade secrets and all.”

Georgina nodded.

“I understand. No hard feelings. By the way, I’m incredibly impressed with your skills. You clearly know your way around an alchemy lab.”

The witcher was taken aback – but not in a bad way. He just wasn’t used to hearing compliments – ever. He could probably count on one hand the number of compliments he’d received in his decade plus at Kaer Morhen, and even those were usually of the back-handed variety. Like in those rare moments when a master witcher would call him an ‘ignorant fool’ as opposed to the more common ‘ignorant, _incompetent_ fool.’ Therefore, he didn’t really know how to respond.

“Well, uh, thanks. That’s, uh, nice of you to say.”

After finishing the meal, Geralt spent the rest of the afternoon brewing up potions. And like with the oils and bombs, the list was long – Swallow, White Raffard, Black Blood, Petri’s Philter, Tawny Owl, and White Honey. Each potion had unique attributes – both positive and negative – and it was only through his years of study that he’d learned which potions could be taken with others. Even with a mutated body, a witcher wasn’t impervious to being poisoned. It was entirely possible to overdose on potions, and if he didn’t get a White Honey in him fast enough, he could die from the excessive toxicity.

About an hour before he was finished, Georgina entered the lab again.

“Geralt, this just came for you.”

She held out a small parchment toward him.

Geralt furrowed his brows.

“Who brought it?”

“A guard from the Lyrian embassy.”

That made him wrinkle his brows even more. He was about to ask himself how anyone from that embassy knew where he was, and then he remembered his conversation with Ambassador Hintz the previous day. The Lyrians probably had as many ‘eyes and ears’ out in the city as the Rivians did.

He took the small scroll in hand and noticed that it was sealed with wax, and a crest of a large bird – was it an eagle, he wondered - had been imprinted into the wax. He broke the seal and read through the missive.

_‘Huh,’_ he thought to himself. _‘I’m becoming a popular guy. Yesterday, Ambassador Hintz. Today, Ambassador Beauregard.’_

oOo

In Geralt’s opinion, the two ambassadors couldn’t have been more different in terms of both looks and comportment. While the older Hintz had appeared distinguished, calm and wise, Ambassador Beauregard looked more like a rabid, royal wyvern ready to bite. The burly man had unruly, bright red hair on both his head and face that matched the wild glint in his eyes and his booming voice. There was nothing subtle about the diplomat from Lyria.

“So, how much, witcher?”

“Come again?” asked Geralt.

The teen had only been in the ambassador’s office a matter of minutes. Beauregard had introduced himself, had offered Geralt a drink, and – after the teen had declined – had gone straight to the bribe.

“Come now, Geralt. Don’t play sly. You know exactly what I’m talking about. How much will it take for you to drop the monster contract? I heard that a thousand crowns wouldn’t do it? How about fifteen hundred?”

“Ambassador Beauregard, there’s been a mistake. I-”

“Alright, Alright, I like a man who knows how to play the game,” interrupted Beauregard. “Make it two thousand, but I can’t go any higher than that without getting my king’s approval.”

Geralt paused for a moment and just looked at man

“And just why do you want me to drop this contract, Ambassador?”

Geralt didn’t think Beauregard would actually answer – at least not truthfully - but he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. And the man did seem to be very blunt…so maybe he would be forthcoming after all.

“Oh, there you go again. Playin’ sly.” Then the ambassador took a long drink of whiskey. “You know exactly why.”

“Because, ultimately, Lyria wants control of this kingdom…so that you can take control of both the anisetz mines and the bridge?”

“See - I knew that you were a smart lad. But, in truth, the reason actually runs deeper than that. Would you like a history lesson, young witcher?”

“Why not? I like history. You can learn a lot from it.”

“Well, you’ll like this story then. This land – and these mines – _rightly_ belong to Lyria,” he said, giving his desk a small thump with his fist. “Dothan was once a duchy of its superior neighbor to the east, but three centuries ago, this land’s ruler – one Duke Millican from the house of Dothan – declared independence. Naturally, the royal court in Lyria wouldn’t abide such an act of treason and sent troops to retake what the gods had ordained was theirs. Dothan was small then, just as it is now, so they were greatly outnumbered. However, they had two things in their favor – one of them being the incredible defensive structures surrounding their city. The Lyrians would have lost countless lives with an all-out attack. So, instead, they prepared for a long siege. Unfortunately, what the Lyrians _didn’t_ know was the second thing that was in the Dothanites’ favor – that they’d agreed to a sneaky, underhanded alliance with those rats from Rivia. Duke Millican had consented that his first-born son would marry the princess from Rivia. And, in exchange, the Rivian army snuck around behind and attacked us right up the old poop-shoot. As soon as they attacked, the Dothanites opened the gates of the city and attacked from the front. Our boys didn’t stand a chance. 

“So, as you see, this land here is _actually_ Lyrian soil, and we just want what’s ours. So, whatever it is that’s killing off those sons-of-bitches from House Dothan, well, we’d just like to see it continue. 

“And don’t let that slick Hintz fool you, son. That’s exactly what the Rivians want, too. Those whoresons think that, if House Dothan is wiped out, they actually have a rightful claim to this land since they married into the family. Hogwash, I say. This land was ours long before that.”

Geralt nodded his head. The ambassador’s history lesson had definitely given him some added context to the complicated politics amongst the three kingdoms, but he didn’t think that it actually changed anything with regards to the contract, itself. He still had no idea what the monster was or who – if anyone – was controlling it.

Then, the teen suddenly had an idea. Geralt knew that many – if not all – vampires had adverse reactions to silver. Since Ambassador Beauregard seemed like a very direct man, then maybe he could just come right out and ask him.

“Ambassador, I feel like I’ve done you a favor by coming here tonight and listening to your offer. And it’s a very fair offer – one that I will answer shortly. However, before I do, I’d appreciate it if you returned the favor.”

Beauregard narrowed his eyes, and then a small smile came to his face.

“Let’s hear it, son.”

“I would like for you to touch my silver sword. I’ll put the flat part of the blade into your palm. Would you be willing to do that?”

Beauregard looked at the teen for a moment and laughed.

“Son, if that’s all it takes for you to drop this contract, then that’s a deal. Let’s see that sword of yours.”

Geralt sighed inwardly. If Beauregard was willing to touch his sword, then that right there was probably proof enough that he wasn’t a vampire. However, the teen decided to forge ahead and go through with it anyway. He stood up and walked to the side of the desk. He removed his silver sword and slowly lowered the flat part of the blade toward the ambassador’s turned-up hand, watching his face the entire time. The witcher paused the sword just an inch from the man’s hand, and at the point, Beauregard looked up at the teen and smiled.

“Go ahead, son. Do it.”

The witcher held his breath and slowly rested the blade onto Beauregard’s palm. He looked at the man’s hand, into his eyes and then back to his hand. There was no reaction at all – not on his skin or in his eyes. After a moment, the teen lifted the sword and sheathed it. He sat back down and looked at the ambassador. There was a twinkle in Beauregard’s eyes.

“So, I’m guessing that was some kind of witcher test. Did I pass?” he asked with a chuckle.

The teen nodded. “That one.”

“Oh, there’s more?”

“Yes,” said Geralt. “But I don’t think they’re necessary now.”

“Then, I guess it’s time to hear your response, witcher. What’ll it be?”

“The folks in your intelligence network are good, Ambassador – because you are right – I did turn down a thousand crowns. But they’re not great. Because, if they were, then you’d know that I wouldn’t cancel the contract for ten thousand crowns. It’s not a matter of price. It’s a matter of honor.”

Beauregard smiled and slowly drank down his whiskey.

“Honor won’t buy you single-malt whiskey, son. Or keep a beautiful woman on your arm. But you’re young. You’ll figure that out in time.” Then the man’s eyes narrowed a bit. “If you stay alive, that is.”

“Is that a threat, Ambassador?”

Beauregard laughed.

“Not at all, son. Not at all. I just hear that witcher’s work is quite dangerous, isn’t it? I mean, what is the life expectancy of a witcher, anyway? Can’t be more than eighteen, nineteen years old. So, you be safe out there, you hear? You and your honor.”

oOo

The sun had already set and the streets were dark by the time that Geralt exited the Lyrian embassy. He’d taken his saddlebags and alchemy box into the meeting with the ambassador to keep them from being stolen, and now he placed them back onto his borrowed horse. As he mounted the chestnut gelding, he thought back over the conversation he’d just had with Beauregard, and once again, he felt completely in over his head. It was like he was playing a card game, but everyone else was playing by different rules and had extra cards hidden in their sleeves. He couldn’t get a true read on anyone – not Prince Roope, Captain Birke, Ambassador Hintz, or Beauregard. And he’d certainly been clueless when it’d come to Rojet and Prince Mathias. Hell, he even felt out of his element with Delyla. Not because he didn’t trust her but because, well, he was smitten with her and she knew it. She could’ve told him to jump off of the Anisberg bridge and he would’ve probably done it. The only person he thought that he had a good read on was King Travid, and that was simply because the man was too drunk to be duplicitous. The monarch seemed to blurt out whatever was on his mind – which the teen was grateful for. At least there was one person he thought he could read.

The witcher was lost in these thoughts as he rode down the cobblestone streets, the hooves of his horse clip-clopping along. He lifted his gaze a bit and noticed four men a half a block away. They were leaning against the wall of a building, but as he got closer, they all pushed themselves off the wall and walked into the street. The four stood in the street about an arm’s distance from one another, in essence blocking his path. All four also held loaded crossbows in their hands. He pulled back on the reins and stopped his mount about twenty feet away from them. And then he heard footsteps coming from behind him. He turned his mount and saw four more men walking towards him, also armed with crossbows.

Though the sun had set long ago, the witcher had no doubt that the men could clearly see him since the streets were illumined by the bright light of the moon. He looked around him and saw no nearby alleyways or side-streets. He was hemmed in on both sides. This is not good, he thought. Not good at all.

“From the twin swords on your back, I assume you’re a witcher,” said one of the men in front of him. “You’re not, by chance, Geralt, are you?”

The witcher quickly glanced over his shoulder and then back toward the four in front of him.

“Nah. Name’s Vesemir.”

The teen saw the speaker smile.

“That so? Because we heard the witcher Geralt had white hair and a gravelly voice. I doubt there’s two of you in this city.”

Then, the smile left the man’s face.

“Get him!” the man shouted, and immediately, he and the others raised their crossbows to their shoulders.

The witcher signed a Quen shield and jerked on the reins a fraction of a second before he heard the twang of the crossbows fire. His horse whinnied in terror and pain as two bolts punctured its flesh. The gelding reared up and then tumbled to the street, tossing Geralt from the saddle. Three of the bolts had also impacted the witcher’s Quen barrier causing loud popping noises, and when he scrambled onto his knees in the middle of the street, he noticed that the glowing, orange protection was no longer visible. He quickly signed another Quen, but an instant before it activated, he felt a bolt bury deep into his left shoulder. As he gritted his teeth, he heard Vesemir’s voice in his head.

‘All men burn.’

He immediately grabbed a Dancing Star bomb from his bandolier and tossed it toward the four arbalests in front of him. The explosive detonated, catching two of the four men on fire. The teen then ducked down low, using his dead horse for as much cover as possible. He saw the four crossbowmen behind him re-cocking their weapons, and he snatched a Northern Wind from the bandolier and launched it their way. As soon as it left his hand, he was on his feet, running right behind it and unsheathing his steel sword. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his leg as another bolt sunk into his flesh. He stumbled and gritted his teeth but was able to stay on his feet. He kept running towards his now ‘frozen’ enemies and cut down the first two in a blink of an eye. The other two men were just ‘unfreezing’ when he turned their way. With only un-cocked and empty crossbows in their hands, they stood no chance. The teen quickly spun and whirled between the two, decapitating both enemies. As their headless bodies were falling to the ground, the witcher turned back towards the foursome that had originally been to his front. Two bodies were lying in the street, no longer moving and still burning, but the other two men had just re-loaded their weapons and were bringing them up to aim.

“Better make those count,” the witcher growled. “Because I’m gonna be on you in about three seconds.”

He signed a Quen and immediately started sprinting towards the two men. He was halfway to them when he saw one bolt heading directly for his chest, but with a flick of his wrist, he deflected it with his blade. A split second later, the other bolt impacted his Quen barrier and shattered the protection. He kept running right at his two enemies, and with a loud growl, he swung his blade and cut the man on his left completely in two. He used the momentum of the swing to spin his body, and as he was coming out of the turn, he saw the last man lunging at him with a knife. He snapped his wrists and brought his blade down, severing the man’s arm at the elbow. The man’s screams rent the air and he fell to the street, holding his stump with his left hand.

Geralt knelt down over the man and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. 

“Who sent you?” he growled.

But the man just continued to scream as arterial blood shot forth from his wound. 

“Oh, no. You’re not gonna die on me, you piece of filth.”

The witcher grabbed the man’s stump and blasted a steam of Igni fire right at the wound, hoping to cauterize it. The man’s howls of pain echoed through the streets, and then, almost instantly, he went quiet, his body going slack. Geralt looked down into the dead man’s face before throwing his corpse onto the street in disgust. 

Suddenly, Geralt heard sounds all around him. He looked up to see that a dozen or more citizens were out in the street gawking at the carnage. And then his eyes fastened on one man in particular – a man walking his way with several guards on either side of him. A burly man with bright red hair. The man stepped over or around several corpses and strolled right up to the teen. He looked the witcher up and down, his eyes stopping on the two bolts protruding from the teenager’s body.

“Well,” said Ambassador Beauregard with a small smirk. “Looks like you and your honor are going to live to see another day.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Kaer Morhen – 1189_

Geralt didn’t know where he was. He just knew that it was dark and that he was alternating between feeling either extremely hot or unbearably cold. And there was pain - constant pain and endless screaming. Someone was incessantly screaming. The screams were sometimes loud, but most often, they were muted, as if they were coming from someone locked in a deep dungeon. There were also voices - some he recognized and some he didn’t – and occasional visions that flashed in his mind. As with the voices, some of the visions he immediately recognized – memories of times long past, but there were others that disappeared too quickly, before he had a chance to take everything in. 

He moaned as he felt his ear being twisted and saw Kalen’s sneer…Steej pouring a bucket of cold water over him as boys taunted him and called him names…panic looking at Farkus’ lifeless face…the cries of Eugene as his back was ripped to shreds…Reisel’s bloody, punctured body and the fear in those normally hate-filled eyes. He relived all of those agonizing memories and so many more that he’d had in his life. And, then, another vision flashed in his mind, and he instantly cried out in anguish. For he knew this memory intimately. It had haunted him for years.

_“M-m-mama…I-I’m cold,” Geralt said, his teeth chattering together._

_Visenna looked up at her son, who was shivering and riding atop a small donkey._

_“I know you are, baby. I know. Here, take my coat.”_

_She removed her coat and wrapped it around the little boy. She then re-gripped the donkey’s reins and continued walking along the tree-lined trail with the donkey – and her son – following just behind her. Though it was mid-day, not a ray of sunlight could be seen. A severe cold front had blown in a few hours earlier and thick clouds covered the sky while strong winds howled through the surrounding forest. It looked like it might start raining at any moment._

_The mother and son had left their home a week ago, Visenna telling Geralt that they were going on a grand adventure, but the little boy didn’t think that was true. There had been very little fun on their journey so far – mostly because he was incredibly worried about his mother. She seemed quite sick, with very little energy. Her skin was pale. She had large, dark bags under her watery eyes, and her cough – which she’d had for over a month – was only getting worse. And now, on top of all that, they were freezing. But Geralt hadn’t told her that he wasn’t having fun, though. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings._

_The two continued along for a couple more hours until finally Visenna stopped her slow shuffle._

_“There’s a -” and then she suddenly had another coughing fit. Once it was over, she tried again. “There’s a clearing here, Geralt. We’ll camp here for tonight. I’ll start a fire to warm us. Does that sound good?”_

_The five-year old little boy just nodded his head before holding out his arms. Visenna lifted him off the donkey, placed him on the ground, and grabbed their gear off of the animal’s rump. Twenty minutes later, she had their small tent erected, and right near the tent’s entrance was a small pile of dead tree branches and leaves that the two of them had gathered. Geralt watched as his mother waved her hands in a small circle and cast a spell. The tiniest of flames sprung from her fingertips and, though it was small, she was able to eventually get the campfire going._

_The little boy stared at the tiny flame coming from his mother’s hand and frowned._

_“Mama, what’s wrong with your magic?”_

_In the past, he’d seen her cast flames ten times as powerful as the one she’d just conjured._

_She looked at him for a moment and smiled._

_“There’s nothing wrong, sweetie. It’s just from the cold…but we’re better now, right? Look, we have a warm fire.”_

_She pulled him close and snuggled him against her chest._

_Geralt leaned back against his mother, enjoying her arms around him, her warmth, and her familiar scent._

_“Mama, where are we going again?”_

_“I’ve told you already…it’s a surprise. You’ll find out soon enough. Let’s just enjoy our journey together, okay?”_

_The little boy sighed. He’d asked her numerous times about their destination – since before they’d even started on their trip - but she’d only ever say that it was a surprise._

_“Okay,” he said sullenly, and a moment later, he wriggled out of her arms. “I’ve got to go make water.”_

_“Alright, but don’t wander far. It’s getting dark.”_

_“Okay,” he said as he walked into the woods._

_The truth was that he didn’t really have to urinate. He was just angry with his mother so he had decided to punish her by not letting her hug him any longer. Him pouting was typical when he didn’t get his way – though, truthfully, he rarely pouted since Visenna almost always gave him what he wanted. But, at the moment, he wanted to know where they were going and she refused to tell him. As far as he knew, she’d never kept anything from him before, and he didn’t like her doing it now. She may have thought not telling him their destination was adding to the excitement of the trip, but all it was doing was making him even moodier and more anxious than he already was._

_The land sloped gently away from the trail towards a shallow gulley, and the little boy kept his eyes cast downward as he walked, his feet kicking through the dry leaves that had fallen from the trees and covered the forest floor. He stopped when he came across a long dead tree branch, and he reached down to pick it up. Because he was still wearing his mother’s coat – the sleeves of which ended way past his fingertips – it took him some effort before he finally got the stick in his hand. Once in hand though, he immediately began to swing it about, pretending he was fighting off ruffians and bandits that were terrorizing the kingdom._

_Geralt battled his imaginary foes as he worked his way deeper into the woods until, suddenly, a sight before made him stop. He was looking at a large mound of dirt that was as tall as he was and at least ten feet in diameter. He’d never seen anything like it, and he had no idea what could have caused it. He paused for just a moment and turned his head to look back up the embankment. He could just make out the smoke and light from the campfire through the trees of the forest. Feeling safe, he turned back to the mound and climbed toward the top. Once there, he saw a large, deep hole that seemed to have no bottom. He squinted his eyes and peered into it, but even if it had been a sunny day, he wasn’t sure that he’d be able to see anything. Was it some kind of well, he wondered? He quickly had an idea and climbed back down the mound. He found a large rock and then struggled his way back up the mound carrying it in both hands. With a heave, he tossed the rock into the hole and listened. He heard nothing for a couple of seconds, and then he detected what sounded like the stone hitting dirt. The noise continued for a few seconds, as if the stone was still falling or rolling against the sides of the tunnel. And then there was silence. He certainly had heard no water splashing, so if it was a well, then it was a dry one. For about ten seconds, Geralt could hear nothing but his heavy breathing and the sounds of the forest. And then, he swallowed as he heard noises echoing up towards him, and suddenly, he realized that the noise was coming from something that was alive and it was heading his way._

_Immediately, he scrambled down the mound of dirt, but his legs got tangled in the bulky coat and he tumbled down to the forest floor. He struggled to his feet and quickly looked over his shoulder before running as fast as his little legs could take him up towards the camp. He’d only traveled about twenty feet when he suddenly heard a horrendous screech behind him. He turned around to see two, hideously ugly, humanoid-shaped creatures just crawling out of the mound of dirt and staring directly at him. Instantly, they began running in his direction._

_“Mamaaaa!” he screamed as loud as he could before sprinting up the hill._

_He immediately heard Visenna call out to him, and his eyes frantically searched the woods to find her. Though he couldn’t see her through the trees, he could hear her voice so he ran as fast as he could towards it, tears of fright streaming down his face. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that four monsters were gaining on him, and he screamed again._

_He suddenly saw an orange flame at the top of the gulley. It was just a few feet away._

_“Mama!” he screamed again._

_“Geralt!” his mother cried out, holding a long, burning branch from the campfire in her hand._

_Before he could even warn her of the danger, she grabbed him by the collar and jerked him behind her. After that, visions flashed before his eyes – so quickly that he could barely register them. Four monsters surrounding them while he hugged his mother’s leg tightly; their donkey tethered nearby, braying and frantically bucking its hind legs; Visenna waving the fiery piece of wood at the creatures; one of the monsters attacking her from behind and hearing her cry of pain; the two of them falling to the ground, and his world turning dark as his mother covered his body with her own. And, then, suddenly, he felt himself being lifted into the air._

_Geralt was thrashing his body about, swinging his hands and feet wildly. But he also had his eyes sealed shut as he was too terrified to look at the hideous monsters’ faces close up. He was imagining their open maws about to chomp down on him. He was screaming and crying so loudly that he couldn’t hear anything going on around him._

_Eventually, though – as the seconds passed and no attack came – he stopped yelling and slowly opened his eyes. They were so full of tears that he couldn’t truly make out the ‘thing’ that was holding him up by the front of his coat, his feet a meter off the ground. He reached his hand up and wiped his eyes with his coat sleeve, and his vison came into focus._

_“Holy hell, kid. You scream like a stuck pig. But I guess that’s a good thing. Helped me zero in on the nekkers.”_

_Geralt couldn’t say anything. He just stared at the strange man in front of him, the flames from the camp fire reflecting off of his cat-like eyes._

_The little boy turned his head and looked about. Lying on the ground around the campsite were four monsters, all of them hacked to pieces._

_“Thanks for drawing them out of their nest, kid,” said the man with a laugh. “With them being focused on you, they were a lot easier to kill than normal. Hell, I’d give you a slice of the contract if I wasn’t such a stingy son-of-a-bitch.”_

_But Geralt wasn’t really paying attention to what the man was saying for right below him was his mother lying supine on the ground. Her shirt was ripped in several places and she was covered in blood. He looked at her face, and he immediately started crying again. She looked even more pale than before, and there was blood trickling from both her nose and mouth._

_“Kid, the crying’s wearing thin. Real thin,” growled the man, and then he let go of his grip on Geralt’s coat._

_The little boy fell to the ground, landing on his tail end, and he immediately crawled over to Visenna._

_“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry,” he cried over and over as he tried to hug her around the neck._

The memory abruptly ended, and Geralt returned to the darkness, but he continued to whisper, “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m sorry,” again and again. He didn’t know how many times he said it or for how long, for in the darkness time was meaningless. He couldn’t differentiate between a minute versus a day. All he knew was the constant pain.

In time, as he continued to plead to his mother, the darkness fell away to be replaced with a sunny day – not a cloud in the bright blue sky. But this was different than all the other memories, for he knew immediately that this was no memory at all. He didn’t recognize the place, and he was positive that he’d never been there before.

He was standing in the most beautiful flower garden that he’d ever laid eyes on. Some of the colors that he was seeing, he didn’t even know existed. Many of the plants were exotically shaped, with unique petals and leaves. He was sure that none of these plants were in his botany text.

But it wasn’t just the flora that had him mesmerized. In the middle of the garden was a white, marble bird bath filled with the clearest of water, and hopping around the edges of the water were a handful of birds, whose colors – like those of the flowers – were quite extraordinary.

Geralt looked around and noticed both bees and humming birds darting around the grounds, many of them congregating near some honey-suckle that was growing on a trellis. He breathed in deeply and not only detected the sweet scent in the air but also the unmistakable odor of freshly, turned-over soil. He gazed about in awe of the beauty. It was glorious. And, then, he saw something else, and he involuntarily stopped breathing for a moment, the air caught in his throat.

“Mama?” he whispered. “Mom?”

On a marble bench near the bird bath sat Visenna. She sat with her back straight and head up, and she, too, seemed to be enthralled by the majestic beauty around her for she wore just the smallest of smiles on her face. Geralt said her name loudly, but she showed no signs that she could hear him. He looked at her closely and thought that she must be slightly older than when he’d seen her last. The bright rays of sunlight were reflecting off of a few strands of silver in her shiny red hair, and there were some new wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. But her skin looked healthy - no longer pale but full of color and life. She was beautiful, he thought. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She looked like…like love, he finally decided.

He said her name again, but again, she didn’t respond.

What was this place, he wondered? Was it heaven? Was he dead? But, if they were both dead, then why couldn’t she hear him? And he couldn’t be in heaven, he assured himself. Because if there was a heaven, then that meant that there had to be a God, right? And he knew that God didn’t exist. So, then, where exactly was he? Eventually, he realized that he may never know the answer so he just stopped fretting about it and continued to gaze at his mother.

Suddenly, Visenna’s small grin broke into a radiant smile. Flying towards her were two butterflies with bright yellow wings spotted with red. In the sunlight, the wings shone with a golden glow. The two bugs ‘danced’ around her for almost a minute before landing softly on the bench next to her. They both flapped their wings, almost as if they were giving her a greeting. 

“Well, hello to you,” she replied back.

Her voice sounded just like he remembered, and he brought his hand up to his mouth as he clenched his jaws, his chest suddenly very tight.

“Mom,” he said again, his voice breaking.

The butterflies took off from the bench and fluttered away on the gentle breeze that was blowing through the garden. Visenna watched them go, her wide smile slowly fading until she had just a small, wistful smile on her face. She reached up with her left hand and touched the butterfly brooch that was pinned to her blouse.

“I love you, Geralt,” she whispered. “My little knight.”

And then the vision slowly began to fade until Geralt was, once again, surrounded by blackness. But her last words were echoing in his mind. He kept hearing “knight” over and over again, until eventually her voice changed, to be replaced by another voice. It was a man’s voice. It was gruff and one he was very familiar with. The darkness suddenly vanished, and he was thrust into another scene. But instead of another confusing vision, this one was another memory. He easily recognized it for it had occurred less than a year ago.

_Geralt dodged to his right and brought his sword upward in a vertical strike. His blade passed right through the drowner, and he quickly rolled to his left to avoid an attack from the second drowner. But he didn’t roll fast enough. The second drowner’s claw slashed through the air and came across the velpe’s face._

_“Wrong!” yelled Vesemir. “Wrong! Chird, stop!”_

_Chird – the junior mage at Kaer Morhen and Hieronymus’ assistant - dropped his hands, terminating his spell, and the two drowners immediately vanished. Four or five times a week the velpen would battle Chird’s illusions – what he called ‘simulacra.’ Geralt didn’t know what the word was supposed to mean, but he didn’t really care. He just knew that the magic that created them was amazing. It allowed him – and the rest of the velpen - to practice against different monsters from the bestiary. These magical illusions were not material in nature, and thus, they could not be harmed nor could they harm the velpen. However, they acted – with the same speed, movement, and fighting style – as their real-world counterparts._

_With the ghost-like drowners now gone, Geralt suddenly found himself standing alone in the middle of the training area, but he wouldn’t be alone for long. Vesemir was striding his way. The young velpe glanced past the sword instructor to see the rest of the velpen standing in a half-circle, where they’d been watching his turn against the simulacra._

_“You’ve only been my student a week, and I can already tell you’re developing a lousy habit,” barked Vesemir, now standing in front of Geralt. “Every time, you make your initial dodge to your right, and that got you in trouble this time. Why?”_

_That was Vesemir’s teaching style. He wanted his students to self-evaluate, to discover for themselves just where and why they went wrong and just how they could improve. And if they couldn’t figure it out, then he’d give them pointers._

_Geralt thought for a moment, his mind replaying the just-finished battle. Finally, he nodded._

_“The drowner on my left attacked first…which means that when I dodged to the right, I dodged right into the other drowner’s direction. If I was going to dodge, it should have been to the left…putting the first drowner between me and the second.”_

_Vesemir didn’t say anything. He just gave a short nod of his head._

_“You lot hear that?” he asked, turning to the rest of the velpen._

_“Yes, Master Vesemir,” they all said in unison._

_Geralt could tell that all of them except Fedun – the velpe in his cohort – looked bored. Which made sense, he thought. It had probably been years since they’d only gone up against two drowners in their training exercises. Prior to his battle, he’d watched one of the oldest velpen fighting six ghouls. It had been illuminating for Geralt. It’d made him realize just how far he had to go._

_“Any questions?” asked Vesemir to the group._

_One of the older velpen, Miro, raised his hand. Geralt could see the tiniest of smiles on his face._

_“Master Vesemir, young Fedun here has a question.”_

_Fedun’s eyes immediately went wide and he began shaking his head._

_“Nah, go ahead, ask him. It was a great question, Fedun,” said Miro, patting Fedun on the back._

_The younger boy looked up at the older, who gave him a wink and nod of assurance._

_“Well, okay,” said Fedun tentatively._

_Geralt slowly shook his head. ‘What an idiot,’ he thought._

_“I was just wondering if the human simulacra were just as life-like…and when we’d get to fight them.”_

_Several of the velpen groaned at hearing the question._

_“Fedun, get down on your face!” yelled Vesemir. “And do pushups until I get tired. And you, too, Miro, you smartass! In fact, everyone, get on your faces.”_

_As everyone was down on the ground doing pushups, Vesemir began pacing back and forth in front of them._

_“I thought you older velpen already knew the answer to this, but apparently not. Not if Miro here thinks that Fedun’s question was worth asking.”_

_He then paused in front of Fedun._

_“And Fedun, you’ve been at Kaer Morhen for over a year already. You should already know the answer to this, as well. I can guarantee you that either Master Barin or Master Kalen taught this to you at some point. So, you must not have been paying attention. But I will answer your question, Fedun, and then you’d better never ask it again. You will never fight against human simulacra here at Kaer Morhen. Now, think about it, and tell me why.”_

_Geralt – pushing his body up and down - had a furrowed look on his face as he tried to figure out the answer. In fact, he was trying to determine why the question had pissed off the old witcher so much. Even though he hated Fedun, Geralt had to admit that he thought the question was a legitimate one. It had even crossed his mind once he’d seen just what Chird’s magic could do. Not that he would ever admit that to Fedun or to anyone else._

_“I…I don’t know, Master Vesemir,” answered Fedun after a few seconds._

_“You don’t know,” said Vesemir, the disgust clearly in his voice. “Velpen!” he then yelled. “What are you training to be?”_

_“Witchers, Master Vesemir!” they all yelled back. Well, except for Geralt. He wasn’t going to speak until he knew for sure the right answer._

_“And what do witchers do?” yelled Vesemir._

_“Kill monsters!”_

_“And we kill monsters for what?”_

_“For coin!”_

_Then, Vesemir looked down at Fedun._

_“That’s right. Witchers kill monsters for coin. So, tell me, Fedun. Where in that statement is there any mention about killing humans?”_

_“There…isn’t, Master…Vesemir!” said Fedun, out of breath and straining to lock out his elbows._

_“That’s right. So, then, why in the hell would I waste time on training you on how to fight humans?”_

_“You…wouldn’t…Master Vesemir.”_

_“Listen close, you two newbies - but the rest of you, as well, because I want this to sink in. We are training you to be witchers. You are to kill monsters…for coin. End of story. We are not training you to be soldiers in an army…or bounty hunters chasing down outlaw bands of brigands…or bodyguards for some pompous, elite aristocrat…and, by the gods, certainly not some dumbass, flowery knight righting the wrongs of the world._

_“So, now that I have properly educated you, Fedun, tell me - which of your swords – the steel or the silver – was made for killing humans?”_

_“The…the steel, Master…Vesemir?” said a shaking Fedun, doing his best to push his body upward._

_The rest of the velpen groaned. Even Geralt knew the answer that the instructor wanted._

_“You are an idiot, Fedun,” said Vesemir. “If you have to defend yourself against humans or non-humans, then, yes, use the steel. But the correct answer is ‘neither,’ Fedun. ‘Neither.’ They’re both for monsters. And hell, if you ever do get into a battle with a human, then you’re gonna be twice as fast as they are. You won’t need any special training to beat them. And if things do get hairy, then just light their asses up with Igni. Every man burns.”_

With those words, the memory ended, and Geralt returned to the world of darkness and pain, but he kept hearing his instructor’s voice. But it wasn’t clear, as it had been in the memory. It sounded like it was coming from a long distance – like an echo traveling across a wide chasm. Geralt moaned and tried to answer back, but he couldn’t find his voice. But he did notice that the voice was slowly getting louder. Little by little it was also getting clearer, until he could finally discern the words.

“You can make it, kid. Just keep fighting. Do you hear me? Just keep fighting, Geralt.”

Upon hearing his name, Geralt slowly opened his eyes. He moved his head just a fraction to his left and saw his sword instructor sitting next to him. The old man’s head was down and his hands were clasped together in front on him, resting on the edge of the cot.

“Thirsty,” Geralt rasped.

Instantly, Vesemir’s head jerked up.

“Hieronymus! Get over here. He’s awake.”

The mage was immediately at Geralt’s side, putting a vial to his lips.

“Sip it, Geralt,” he advised. “Drink it slowly.”

Eventually, he finished swallowing down the cool potion. It felt incredibly soothing on his throat, but he was still thirsty.

“How long have I been -” but he stopped in the middle of his question to cough. He swallowed and then tried again.

“How long -”

He stopped a second time to cough, but there was no phlegm or mucous coming up.

“What the hell is wrong with my voice?”

It was much deeper than before, and there was a definite raspy quality to it.

Hieronymus shook his head.

“Could be a couple of things. It might be a result of the mutations, or…you may have damaged your vocal cords. You were screaming quite a bit while you were unconscious.”

Geralt looked at Vesemir.

“I was?”

Vesemir nodded, a grim look on his face.

“Yeah. A lot. But your voice isn’t the only thing that’s changed. Chird, grab that mirror.”

A moment later, the junior mage returned and placed a hand-held mirror in front of Geralt’s face.

The velpe didn’t say anything. He just reached up and held the mirror in a shaky hand and continued to stare at his reflection. He slowly ran his other hand through his hair and then touched his face. His skin was now pale and his hair had turned milky-white, which made his cat-eyes even more pronounced.

_‘Figures,’_ he thought to himself with a sigh. _‘Been an outcast my whole life. Let’s just make it worse.’_

“Looks like we’ll have to start calling you the ‘White Wolf,’” said Chird was a grin. 

Geralt glanced at the mage before going back to the mirror. Eventually, he nodded slightly and took his eyes off of his image. He looked over at Vesemir.

“Guess that’s better than ‘Piss Boy.’”

oOo

_Day 3 – Dothan; February 1194_

After the battle in the middle of the street, the rest of the night was absolute mayhem, especially with drunken King Travid at his finest. The constables of the city’s watch showed up first, and, because the witcher was involved, the royal guards arrived soon after. Things turned messy when the eight corpses were searched. They all wore attire in the Lyrian style and all had Lyrian orens on their person. This caused the watchmen and guards to turn their attention – and weapons – on Ambassador Beauregard and his embassy guards. The diplomat vehemently denied having any knowledge or involvement in the ambush, and then, with his guards surrounding him, fled back towards the Lyrian embassy, slamming and locking the front gates behind them. After that, Geralt and the guards returned to the palace and informed the royal court of what had just happened.

“It’s treason!” King Travid yelled, slamming a fist on his desk. “Treason, I say!”

“Your Majesty,” interjected Prince Roope, “Beauregard is not a citizen of Dothan. Therefore, technically, he cannot commit treason against our kingdom.”

“Well, well,” the king blustered, and then his eyes fell on Geralt. “They attacked the witcher here – who is my official representative, acting on my behalf. So, when they attacked him, they, in essence, committed an act of aggression against the throne itself. Yes, that’s it! It’s a violation of our peace treaty!”

“We don’t truly know that Beauregard is behind tonight’s attack,” countered the prince. “Anyone can dress up in Lyrian clothes and carry Lyrian coins. Beauregard is a lot of things, but he’s not a fool. In fact, knowing the man the way I do, if he _was_ behind the attack, then he would have probably had his men dressed up in Rivian attire. So, let’s stay calm and think about this rationally.”

“Do nothing is what you mean!” yelled the king. He then turned to the witcher. “Geralt, what do you think?”

Even though the teen had broken off the ends of the arrows, two to three inches of the shafts were still visible and poking out of his blood-stained clothes. And even though he’d downed a Swallow potion earlier, now that the adrenaline of the battle was over, the pain was starting to increase. Before he could answer, Captain Birke spoke up.

“Your Majesty, it’s been over two hours now since the attack. I think that, right now, the best thing for the witcher would be to have those bolts removed…wouldn’t you agree?”

The teen looked at the knight, and, not seeing a condescending look on the man’s face, he gave a small nod of his head. He appreciated that the captain seemed to be the only person in the room who was even remotely concerned about his injuries. Sir Alyn gave a nod of his own back to Geralt.

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” said Travid before taking a drink from his goblet. “But, before, you go witcher, just tell me what you think.”

“You’re Majesty, I’ll leave the politics to you lot, but I think Prince Roope may be right. The Lyrians _could be_ behind the ambush, or it could, just as easily, be someone trying to set them up.”

“Ah hah!” yelled the king. “You’re absolutely right. I bet it _was_ Hintz, that Rivian snake! Or, no, wait…it was both of them. I bet they’re working together!”

And with that, Geralt shook his head and asked if he could take his leave. The king was ranting and raving, so Sir Alyn bid the teen a good night.

oOo

_Day 4 – Dothan; February 1194_

Geralt heard a small knock on his bedchamber door, opened his eyes, and groaned. He wasn’t hungover like the previous morning, but his shoulder and thigh were both quite sore. It had taken Doctor Dermitt a bit of time to dig both of the arrows out of his flesh the night before. Afterwards, the good doctor had applied some balm to the wounds, stitched them up, and covered them with bandages. Then, the teenager had taken a White Raffard potion and gone straight to sleep.

A moment after the knock, the door creaked open, and he looked over to see Delyla poke her head in.

“Geralt? Are you up?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he answered sitting up in bed. He looked towards the windows of his room. Even though the curtains on every window were drawn, he could still see some dim light coming in around the edges. “What time is it?”

“A little after sun-up. How are you feeling?”

“Not bad,” he said, and then threw the covers off of him and stood up. Despite only wearing his underpants, he wasn’t embarrassed. She’d already seen him completely naked so what did it matter at that point? He limped over to a small table, grabbed a metal vial, and quickly swallowed the contents.

“One of these,” he said, holding up the now empty vial, “and a big breakfast, and then I should be right as rain.”

“Well, good. I was…I was worried when I found out what happened to you. You’ve…you’ve started to mean a lot to me.”

The two stood still for a moment simply staring at each other. Geralt wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but he assumed that she just saw him as a friend or, worse, as a younger brother. 

_‘But I guess that’s better than nothing, though,’_ he thought.

So, he gave her small smile and a nod of his head. She smiled and nodded back at him.

“And I brought you these. Thought they might make you feel better.”

She held up her hand, and Geralt could see a clear, glass jar full of what looked like nuts.

“What are they?”

“Just try one.”

He walked over, took the lid off of the jar, and grabbed one of the nuts. Up close, he could see that it was a pecan. He popped it into his mouth, crunched it a couple of times, and, a moment later, the flavor hit him.

“Mmmm, wow. That’s fantastic,” he said reaching for a handful.

The smile on her face was huge.

“I thought you’d like them. I saw you at dinner the other night eating three pieces of cake. You clearly have a sweet tooth.”

“Hey, give me a break. I hadn’t had a piece of cake in over a decade. What’s this flavoring? These are _not_ normal pecans.”

“They’re pan-fried in butter and then drizzled with a touch of honey and sprinkled with cinnamon.”

“Cinnamon? Never heard of it.”

“Really? Well, I guess that makes sense. It’s not grown in the north. It’s a spice that we import from way down south in the Continent. From a little kingdom called Nilfgaard.”

“Huh, well, these are great,” he said grabbing a second handful. “I could eat the entire jar in one sitting.”

“I’m glad you like them.” Then, after a pause, she continued. “You won’t believe what’s going on in the city.”

The witcher looked up from the pecans in his palm.

“After the last couple of days I’ve had in this place, I think I could believe anything. What happened?”

“King Travid wouldn’t listen to reason last night – shocking, I know. He sent several companies of soldiers to both the Rivian and Lyrian embassies with orders that Hintz and Beauregard come out and surrender to interrogation. They both refused, and frankly, given how insane Travid is, I can’t blame them. So, now there’s a stand-off at both embassies.”

“Brilliant,” he said, shaking his head. “Think this will lead to war?”

“I don’t know. The word around the palace – amongst the staff – is that Travid won’t attack either embassy. That it was all just a bluff. But, now that he’s played his hand, he’s too proud to back down. No one knows what he’ll do, and tensions are high all over the city.”

“Swell.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“About that? Nothing. That’s none of my business.”

“Geralt, yes, it is. Whoever was behind last night’s attack made it your business when they sent all those men to kill you. Who’s to say they won’t try again?”

The witcher sighed. The reminder that he’d killed again – even if it was again in self-defense – was weighing on the teen. He was now responsible for the deaths of ten men in the last two days. He’d never wanted any of that to happen, and he wished he could somehow take it all back. But, since he couldn’t, he wished there was some way that he could just forget about it all.

“Look, Delyla, yeah, I’d like to find out who tried to kill me last night…if for no other reason than to lock them up so they can’t try it again. But even if I did find out who it is, that doesn’t mean that they’re behind the killings here in the palace. And that’s what I was hired to do – to find the monster - so that’s what I need to focus on.”

“So, then, what are you going to do?”

The witcher shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I think I’ve run out of people to talk to.”

“Okay. Well, just please be careful.”

“I will.”

Delyla slowly approached him and gave him a hug. At first, he just stood there, his arms down to his side and unsure of what to do. He looked down at her head resting on his chest and could smell her scent. The lilac was so strong. Eventually, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her back. He couldn’t believe how good it felt.

A moment later, she broke the hug and took a step back.

“I have to get to my morning duties, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

She shut the door behind her, leaving the witcher to his thoughts, and were they ever a convoluted mess in his mind. Every time he tried to concentrate about the contract, thoughts of Delyla popped in and broke his line of thinking. And then, when he thought about her, the problem with the monster interrupted his thoughts. Eventually, he decided to get dressed and grab some breakfast. The clothes that he’d been wearing the night before were torn and bloody, but fortunately his own clothes were neatly folded and stacked on a nearby shelf. It looked like Delyla had somehow found the time to wash them.

Pierre fixed the teen a large breakfast, which seemed to help with both his physical and mental state. As he sat there in the kitchens, thinking over the past three days, he suddenly felt like he was forgetting something important. Something that he’d planned to do but hadn’t gotten around to. But no matter how much he tried to remember, the mystery piece of the puzzle just wouldn’t come to the forefront. Eventually, he finished his meal and headed back to his room, where he saw Lebioda’s book of wisdom on the table.

_‘Maybe if I just take my mind off of it, it will suddenly come to me,’_ he thought.

That had happened to him before in the past when he couldn’t remember something, so he thought - what the hell – he’d give it a try. He grabbed ‘The Good Book’ off the table and took a chair out to his balcony. He opened to a random page and began reading. A few minutes later, he came across a verse.

_‘Parents, raise your children in the way of righteousness, or you will lead them astray, and they will grow to resent you.’_

And suddenly, Geralt remembered – in a way that only the human mind can connect a half-dozen thoughts in the span of a few seconds. The verse reminded him of Prince Roope and his relationship with the king, and thinking of the prince made him recall their conversation about the anisetz mines, and that made him think of the dwarf, Iesner Vazney. And while the witcher couldn’t remember the dwarf’s exact words, he remembered that Iesner said he’d found evidence of anisetz in the soil near the Lebioda temple. And that’s what he had forgotten. Two days ago, after his conversation with the dwarf, he’d been planning to visit the temple in order to speak with Brother Kennit, but he had chosen to meet with Prince Mathias instead. And in the chaos of the last thirty-six hours, visiting the temple had simply never crossed his mind again.

He shut the book and nodded his head. He was no closer to discovering the whereabouts of the monster, but, at least, he now remembered, and he now had a plan for the morning.

oOo

“Well, my, my,” exclaimed the priest as he walked toward Geralt. “Look who’s back. The young witcher. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name. Not sure if you even gave it.” 

“Geralt.”

The priest, once again in his wooly, brown robe, had just come from the back of the temple grounds. One of the young priests-in-training had tracked down the man at the witcher’s request.

“Well, it’s wonderful to see you again, Geralt. I’m Brother Kennit, if you don’t recall. So, have you had the chance to read any of ‘The Good Book?’”

The look of hope on the man’s face couldn’t be missed.

“Actually, yeah, I have.”

“Oh, excellent! Excellent. And what did you think?”

“Well, honestly, at first, I thought you might have played a prank on me. The first few things I read, well, they seemed more silly than wise.”

Brother Kennit smiled.

“Yes, I should have warned you. First time readers are always surprised by Lebioda’s wonderful sense of humor. But none of his instructions should be dismissed as frivolous or trivial. Deep wisdom and profound insight can be found even in the most humorous of his observations.”

“Is that right?”

“Oh, yes, yes.”

“Okay, then tell me,” remarked Geralt with a small smirk. “Where’s the profound insight in telling someone not to pet a burning dog?”

“Oh, yes, that one,” said the priest with a chuckle. “Well, I could be wrong, but I _believe_ the principle that Lebioda was trying to convey with that little maxim is that we humans have a special proclivity for acts of self-destruction, perhaps more so than any other species on the planet. We _know_ certain behaviors are harmful for us – like petting a burning dog – and, yet, we routinely do them anyway. We truly are our own worst enemies. And what’s even worse is that many of us continue with those same destructive behaviors over and over. We humans almost never learn from our own mistakes. It’s one thing to make a poor choice – we all do that - but it’s quite another not to ever learn from it. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen anyone caught in the snares of fisstech addiction, but it’s a dreadful thing. Those poor souls…so in love and consumed with the very thing that will be their ruin.”

Geralt nodded as a saying popped into his head.

“‘As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly.’”

Suddenly, Brother Kennit laughed and clapped his hands.

“Well, look at that, you even memorized one of Lebioda’s proverbs! That’s one of my favorites, as well.”

“Huh, I didn’t even try to memorize it. I guess it just got stuck in there.”

“Ha, that does happen. You best be careful now, or you’ll be reciting the whole book before too long.”

“Yeah, not likely. Look, Brother Kennit, thanks for the insight, but I’m not actually here to talk about ‘The Good Book.’ I’m hoping you can answer some other questions.”

“Well, I’ll try. What questions do you have?”

“I’d like to know exactly what discussions you’ve had with Prince Roope.”

Suddenly, the warm smile on the priest’s face disappeared.

“Now, Geralt, I, uh, I’m not sure what business that is of yours.”

The witcher reached into his pocket and pulled out the small scroll that commissioned him as King Travid’s representative.

“Sorry to pull rank, Brother Kennit. But this here says it is.”

Less than five minutes later, the two were in the priest’s study. The older man read the small scroll, rolled it up, and handed it back to the witcher. He had a grave look on his face.

“So, what exactly would you like to know?”

“Three days ago, I saw Prince Roope out front with a dozen palace guards. Before he left, he said something along the lines of, ‘My father won’t always be here.’ What did he mean by that? Because it sounded like a threat.”

Brother Kennit didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he exhaled deeply.

“Obviously, you have met the king. Otherwise, you would not have that scroll.”

Geralt nodded.

“Would you be surprised to know that he is a follower of Lebioda?”

Geralt immediately wrinkled his brow.

“Yeah, I would. You said following Lebioda is supposed to lead to wisdom and enlightenment so, yeah, I’d be very surprised.”

The priest gave a sad smile.

“I didn’t say he was a _faithful_ follower. But, apparently, both his parents _were_ faithful followers, and they raised him to be – at least until their passing when he was a teenager. And his first wife apparently was, as well. So, even though he has now roamed very far from the flock, he still has a certain _respect_ \- or maybe fear - for the temple and for those of us who wear the robes.”

“Okay. And?”

“Well, according to Prince Roope, this land here has a large deposit of anisetz stones buried deep below. The prince has asked several times for us to relocate the temple so that he could start mining this land. I have refused. This temple is sacred. One of Lebioda’s nine miracles was performed on this very spot. That is why the temple was erected here in the first place.”

“I’m confused, Brother Kennit,” interrupted Geralt. “All of this kingdom, including this land, belongs to the king, to House Dothan. He could just kick you off, and there wouldn’t be a thing you could do about it.”

“That’s true. The _king_ could, but the king won’t. As I said, he has a certain reverence for Lebioda and his temple.”

“But when he’s gone…” said Geralt nodding.

“Then Prince Roope will be the king,” said the priest.

Geralt broke his gaze and reached up to rub his hand across his jaw. Could the crown prince actually be behind the killings, he wondered. He certainly had motive for wanting Elize dead. But, why Camilla? That piece of the puzzle still didn’t fit. But what if Camilla had been a mistake? What if the monster was supposed to have gone after the king instead? The witcher was lost in thought when Brother Kennit spoke.

“I’m sorry - say again,” said Geralt, looking up at the priest.

“I said that it’s a pity that you didn’t heed my warnings. That you went to Anisberg after all.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, suddenly remembering the priest’s words from three days ago.

“That’s right. If I remember correctly, you said there was a _curse_ on the city.”

A small, sheepish smile crossed Kennit’s face.

“Yes, well, I apologize for that. I may have been a little too zealous with my word choice. My congregation loves to tease me. They say I have a knack for exaggeration and hyperbole when I get particularly fiery in my sermons. That may have been the case when I spoke to you last.”

“Okay, so you didn’t mean an actual curse. I think you also said there was a darkness over the city. What did you mean by that exactly?”

“There is a malignancy at the palace, Geralt. A moral decay that I’m afraid has and will continue to permeate throughout the rest of the city.”

“Are you talking about the monster attacks on Queen Elize and Princess Camilla?”

Kennit’s eyes went wide.

“So, the rumors are true? It was a monster that killed them?”

“There’s only one reason people hire witchers.”

Kennit shook his head.

“The darkness to which I refer goes back much further. Though, it wouldn’t shock me in the least if their deaths are somehow a consequence of it. As ‘The Good Book’ says, ‘He who walks the path of unrighteousness sows the wind, and shall reap the whirlwind.’”

“Brother Kennit, I’ve been in Dothan for less than a week, but I’ve already heard some pretty outlandish rumors. So, let’s hear yours. Tell me about this darkness.”

“Well, I don’t know what you’ve heard or not so I’ll just assume you know nothing.”

“That would be a pretty safe assumption.”

The priest gave a small smile.

“This was all before my time, mind you, but the former Queen – Olyena, I believe – was rumored to have been poisoned. Some say by Elize herself. I wouldn’t know. But regardless, only a few months after her death, King Travid then married his brother’s wife. It was an afront to all things good and holy. ‘The Good Book’ has strict teachings on that sort of vile behavior.”

Geralt had already heard that story from Doctor Dermitt.

“So, that’s it? That’s the darkness you’re talking about?”

“That was only part of it, the beginning. Brother Johan, my predecessor here at this temple, asked the royal court for an audience and received it, and, from what I heard, he politely but firmly rebuked the king and the queen for their actions. He called for them to repent and to annul the marriage. The queen was furious and called for Brother Johan’s head. But, fortunately, the king refused. I’ve mentioned his upbringing, and he just couldn’t bring himself to execute a Lebiodan priest. He did, however, send him to the dungeons in order to placate his new bride. Brother Johan remained a prisoner for about six months, during which time, I was sent here to attend to his flock. Then, a little over two years ago, the king held his annual Midinvaerne festival.”

Upon hearing the priest mention that night, a surge of adrenaline suddenly shot through the teen. He immediately recalled the conversation between the two old ladies in the tavern that he’d eavesdropped on just yesterday morning.

“Late in the evening, his niece – or stepdaughter, depending upon one’s point of view – came in and danced for the king and his guests.”

Kennit’s face suddenly flushed.

“Well, let’s just say that Princess Camilla’s performance was _very_ well received by all. As recompense for her provocative dancing skills, King Travid, in a drunken state, promised to grant to Camilla whatever wish that she desired – excluding his crown, of course. Now, that would be an overwhelming offer for anyone, but certainly for a teenager. So, Camilla left the banquet hall and conferred with her mother. Shortly after, the princess returned and asked the king to bring her Brother Johan’s head on a silver platter.”

_‘Ho…ly…shit,’_ thought the witcher.

“Well, what was the king to do? He didn’t want to execute Johan, but he’d made a promise – a promise in front of some of the most powerful and influential people in all the kingdom. If he reneged, how would he look? So, he ordered it done. Johan was killed, and his head was brought in on a silver platter for the young princess – who then delivered it to her mother.”

Brother Kennit looked at Geralt with a solemn face and slightly nodded his head.

“Ever since then, King Travid has been a shell of a man. I think he’s haunted – and rightly so. And that darkness inside of him has infected all of the palace and all of the city.”

As gruesome as the story was, the witcher was feeling a buzz throughout his body - because this was the break he was looking for. This was the missing piece to the puzzle. This could finally explain why Princess Camilla had been killed.

“Brother Kennit, just how do you know all of this? Because I’m assuming you weren’t there at the Midinvaerne party that night to witness all of this yourself.”

“The king, himself, told me.”

“The _king_ told you?”

“Yes, it wasn’t long after that fateful night that he arrived here, wanting to speak with me. Said he’d been having night terrors. He wanted absolution. That’s what he wanted.”

“Did you give it to him?”

The priest smiled.

“That’s not how it works, Geralt. Absolution is not mine to give. His offense wasn’t against me, so how could I grant him forgiveness? I told him that he could only find absolution by following the path of wisdom and righteousness – Lebioda’s path. And that included terminating his marriage to his brother’s wife. I never saw him again after that.”

The witcher’s mind was racing. He knew this had to be the answer. The monster had to somehow be tied to the dead priest.

“Do you know what happened to Brother Johan’s body?”

“I don’t. I asked if I could have his corpse – to give it a proper burial, but I was told that it had already been disposed of. They didn’t elaborate on exactly what that meant.”

“And I don’t suppose that the king mentioned what Brother Johan’s last words were before he died, did he?”

“I…I don’t think so. I don’t even think that I asked.”

Geralt sighed.

“Okay. One last question. I’ve only read a few pages of ‘The Good Book,’ so I don’t know the answer to this. What do you – Lebiodan priests – believe about magic?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“What I’m getting at is, well, I know that some religions and cults actually practice magic…embrace it. I’m just wondering if Lebiodan priests are knowledgeable of and skilled in the Power?”

“Oh, no, definitely not.”

Geralt frowned at that answer.

“We certainly believe that magic exists, but Lebioda taught that it was unnatural and to be avoided at all costs.”

“So, then, Brother Johan wouldn’t have dabbled in the arcane?”

“Oh, sweet Lebioda, no. He was very orthodox. He thought magic was anathema. In fact, I heard that it caused a serious rift in his family when his sister turned out to be a witch. Geralt, why all these questions about Brother Johan?”

“Because you may have not been exaggerating in our first conversation, after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“A curse. I think there might actually be a curse on the royal family.”


	12. Chapter 12

_Kaer Morhen - 1193_

Geralt was meditating on his platform in the rafters of the stables when he heard Bessie sound her distress. He headed down to her stall and stood at the gate, looking in on her. As he had expected, she was lying on her side in the hay, and her breathing was slightly labored. Both he and Yastic had assumed that she was going to foal that evening. Geralt was surprised, in fact, that the groundskeeper wasn’t already there, observing the birth. Well, observing it as much as the half-blind, old man could.

While Geralt hadn’t been Yastic’s stable boy and servant for about five years, he’d still help the old man from time to time when it came to the horses. He actually enjoyed feeding them, brushing them, and letting them out into the corral for their exercise. He recognized that, in his normal day-to-day state, he was hyper-focused with a fiery anger ever present just below the surface. However, he was also aware that he seemed to be a little more tranquil whenever he was around the horses – just like how petting Marmalade used to soothe his soul. He wasn’t sure if animals had that effect on everyone, or if it was just him, but simply watching the majestic horses somehow calmed the normally intense velpe.

But there was a second reason that he enjoyed spending time with the horses, especially the foals. It reminded him of the only friend that he’d ever had. All these years later, he could still remember Eugene’s goofy smile whenever he was around the foals, and that memory was so bittersweet. Geralt didn’t understand how something could make him want to smile and cry at the same time, but the memory of Eugene somehow did. Even more so than his memories of his mother. When he thought of her, he felt very little of the ‘sweet.’ Those memories – of Visenna - were almost all heartache and guilt, and they overwhelmed him.

He was brought out of his thoughts by more sounds of distress coming from the broodmare.

“You got this, Bessie,” he encouraged. “You’ve done this a dozen times. You can do it, girl.”

Later in the night, Yastic showed up with a lantern in hand and asked Geralt if he’d give him some more light. 

“You already missed it,” Geralt said as he walked into the stall, using his Igni Sign to light up a lantern that was hanging on one of the walls.

“How long ago?”

“An hour maybe.”

Yastic grunted and went into the stall to check on the mother and her foal. Satisfied that they both were breathing fine, he walked back out of the stall and rested on the short door next to Geralt.

While Yastic had never been cruel to Geralt, he had also never been remotely friendly, and the two of them had rarely – if ever - engaged in small talk over the years. So, they both remained relatively silent as they watched Bessie and her foal over the next couple of hours. During that time, Bessie eventually stood and began eating some hay from the floor. The foal, however, was another matter.

It was a gray colored female with black points – tips of the ears, mane, tail, and the stockings of all four legs – and no matter how much she tried, she simply could not stand. Over and over, the little horse struggled to rise – her skinny legs trembling with the effort - only to fall back down onto her side every time. So far, she hadn’t even made it all the way up onto her hooves even once. This wasn’t particularly strange, though. Geralt had seen over twenty foals born, and they all struggled to stand and walk in those first few hours. He could remember seeing his first newborn foal as a five-year-old and wanting to rush over to the horse and help it to balance. But, of course, Yastic hadn’t let him. And, now, a decade later, Geralt knew that to help the foal would actually only hinder it. She had to learn to stand and balance on her own. She had to face the struggle if she was going to overcome it. He knew that the little horse falling down wasn’t going to hurt her and that it was just part of the natural development process. However, as the night wore on and she still hadn’t stood, the teen started to become concerned.

Eventually, Yastic became concerned, too.

“Hell. She looked healthy at first glance,” the old man said. “Let’s go in and check on her.”

The two of them entered the stall and, upon Yastic’s instruction, Geralt lifted the foal in the air while the groundskeeper ran his hands over its body.

“Hell and thunder! Look at these legs. Windswept.”

“Yeah, so? We’ve had a couple of windswept foals before. They eventually grew out of it.”

“They weren’t like this! This has gotta be the worst case I’ve ever seen. And those other foals, they could at least stand and walk. But, this one? Hell…okay, put her down.”

Geralt gently laid the little horse back down in the hay, and he frowned as he slowly rubbed his hands along her severely curved legs.

“Worthless! The little shit is absolutely worthless!” cursed Yastic. “A whole year feeding and looking after Bessie, and we get this ploughin’ defect.”

Geralt suddenly felt a surge of anger course through him. His eyes bore into Yastic, and he clenched his jaws.

“What’s the plan?” he growled slowly. “How are we gonna help her?”

“There ain’t no helpin’ her. She’s either gonna stand on her own or she won’t. I’ll give her another day, but if she ain’t standing by tomorrow, then I’ll put her down. I won’t have her wastin’ -”

But he didn’t get the rest of the sentence out because Geralt had picked him by his arms and slammed him into the nearest wall, making Bessie whinny in fear.

“Oh, hell! Oh, hell!” Yastic cried out. “I think you broke my arm.”

Yastic’s boots were a foot off the ground bringing the twisted and hunched man eye-level with the much taller teenager. Geralt brought his face an inch from Yastic’s.

“Listen close, you piece of shit. A broken arm is the least of your worries. If you come _anywhere_ near that foal, I will kill you. Do you understand me?”

“My arm! I think you broke it!”

Geralt squeezed his hands tighter, making Yastic scream louder. After a few seconds, he eased up.

“I asked if you understand me, you bitter old man.”

“Yes, yes! I won’t go near it. Just put me down.”

Geralt released Yastic, and he crumpled to the ground. The velpe gave one last glare and then turned and walked toward the foal.

“You’re wastin’ your damn time! She’s gonna die anyway. You’ll just be prolongin’ her sufferin’. If she can’t stand, then she can’t nurse, and if she can’t nurse, she’s gonna starve. And even if she could nurse, hell, look at her legs! She can’t walk. What good is horse like that? Nothin’. She’s good for nothin.’”

“I’ll worry about that,” said Geralt, his eyes still on the foal, not even bothering to turn around to look at Yastic.

“Oh…my arm. I think you really did break it. Elgar’s gonna hear about this,” moaned Yastic, finally getting to his feet and stumbling toward the door of the stall.

Upon hearing that threat, Geralt stood and strode toward Yastic, who immediately cowed down and covered his head with his uninjured arm.

“Go ahead. Tell him. All he cares about is money. So, who do you think he values more – a soon-to-be witcher who will bring him coin or decrepit, old piece of shit like you? So, go ahead and tell him. But, Yastic, I’m warning you - don’t let me ever catch you near this horse again.”

Yastic – as quickly as he could – left the stables, and Geralt walked back to the foal and knelt by her side. He reached out and began to gently rub her nose. He then brought his other hand up and touched the wooden, fish-shaped pendant that was resting under his shirt.

“You’re not good-for-nothing,” he said as gently as he could. “Do you hear me, girl? You’re not worthless…and you’re gonna make it out of here. You’re gonna make it.”

oOo

“You may be getting used to this already,” said Geralt, looking over his shoulder at Bessie, who had her head turned and was staring at him with her big dark eyes, “but it’s still a little awkward for me.”

He then faced towards her hind-end again, put a pail underneath the broodmare’s udder, and grabbed ahold of her teats – one in each hand. He gently began to massage and pull until her milk began to flow. A few minutes later, having finished the task, he poured the dam’s milk into a special jug that he’d crafted. The day before, after his sword training was over, he’d spent several hours in the alchemy lab experimenting with a variety of different containers and lids. With the help of some wire, resin, water-proof animal hide, rubber tubing, and a few other components, he’d finally engineered a bottle that the little foal could use to ‘nurse’ since she still couldn’t stand and nurse on her own.

Geralt poured a green potion into the nursing bottle, screwed the lid on tight, and knelt down next to the foal. After putting her head in the crook of his arm, he placed the rubber tube into her mouth and quickly raised the bottle upside down. She immediately began sucking on the tube, gulping down her mother’s milk. 

“That’s right, girl,” he encouraged her. “Just like you did this morning and last night. This’ll get you strong. And don’t worry about your legs. We’re gonna get those fixed, too…somehow.”

He was just finishing up feeding the foal when he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up, and a moment later, Vesemir came into view, stopping in the doorway of the stall. The sword instructor took in the scene in front of him and shook his head.

“Heard you were playing nursemaid to a foal. At first, I didn’t believe it, but then I thought, no, that fits. I guess we need to start training you harder if you got so much extra time to spare on crippled horses.”

Geralt didn’t bother to say anything. He just remained sitting, petting the foal on her neck. 

Vesemir noticed the empty potion bottle on the ground and bent down to pick it up. He looked into the bottle and then sniffed it. He furrowed his brow at Geralt.

“What is this? It’s not a witcher potion.”

“Special elixir for animals. Supposed to strengthen their bones and muscles.”

“Master Frisu help you with this?”

“No. Found the recipe in an old book in the library. It dealt with treating animals. Kind of a cross between an alchemy and zoology text.”

Vesemir nodded.

“I can believe it. There’s no telling what else we got on those shelves. It’d take a lifetime to read all the books we have up there. So, it is a colt or filly?” he asked, pointing his chin at the foal.

“A filly.”

“What’s her name?”

Geralt paused for just a second before answering. “Haven’t named her yet.”

Vesemir nodded, a look of understanding on his face.

“Think she’ll actually make it?”

“We’ll see.”

After several moments of silence, the old witcher continued.

“Also heard you broke Yastic’s arm.”

“Don’t know. Might have. Wasn’t trying to.”

“Not the way I heard it.”

Geralt suddenly stood up and faced his instructor. He could feel his blood starting to run a bit faster.

“Really? So, let me guess - you decided to come down and lecture me about it. Of all the… _hypocritical_ sanctimony! Neither you – nor anyone else in this hellhole – has the right to condemn me about being violent. You people breed it here.”

“Settle down! And no, I’m not here because you roughed up Yastic. That’s not my point.”

“Yeah, then what is?”

“My point is this, Geralt - he’s a weak, pathetic old man, and you broke two of his bones…over a crippled horse? A horse that you’re _now_ having to take care of.”

“Well, he’s lucky he didn’t pull his knife, or he’d be a _dead,_ pathetic old man.”

Vesemir sighed and shook his head.

“Geralt, most likely, before the year is up, you’re gonna be on the Path. A fully qualified witcher. What are you gonna do out there when you come across the frail and the helpless? Because, trust me, they’re _everywhere_ out there. The world’s full of them. Starving animals, homeless kids, abused women, the blind and the deaf. You gonna be a nursemaid to all of them?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Geralt. “I’m just helping this _one_ horse, and you’re acting like I’ve turned into…some priestess for Mother Melitele.”

“It’s _not_ just one horse, Geralt. It’s a pattern with you. First, you befriend a boy that was border-line retarded. Hell, why Elgar even accepted him, I’ll never know. And then, in the past few years, on _numerous_ occasions, you’ve kicked the shit out any fodder who you caught picking on someone smaller.”

Geralt dropped his gaze.

“Oh, didn’t think I knew about that, did ya?”

Suddenly, the velpe raised his head and glared at his instructor.

“You know what – so what? So what if I like to help the weak? Does that make me a bad person?”

Vesemir stared at Geralt for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“No, Geralt, it doesn’t. But it’ll make you a bad witcher. It’s gonna complicate your life and end up biting you in the ass.”

“But…but why?” he asked, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. “My mom, she…she said that kindness was one of the most important qualities _anyone_ could have. So, how can it be bad – even for a witcher?”

“Was your mother a witcher?”

“What? No, of course, not. She was healer.”

Vesemir nodded, raised his eyebrows, and turned his hands palms-up - as if to say, ‘There you go. There’s your answer.’

Geralt suddenly clenched his jaw and shook his head.

“So, you’re telling me,” growled Vesemir, “that you can’t see that maybe – _just maybe_ – healers and witchers could be viewed and treated quite differently by the folks living outside these walls…and that, therefore, her profession and ours might – _just might_ – require slightly different perspectives and temperaments towards the world at large? Is that what you’re really saying?”

“You’re wrong…you’re wrong.”

“Yeah, what the hell do I know? I was only out on the Path for…a hundred and fifty years. But I’m _sure_ you’re right. I’m sure it’s _very_ different out there now. I’m sure you’ll be treated _much_ differently than every other witcher that’s come before you.”

oOo

Geralt was in one of the stalls with the foal when he heard footsteps coming his way. He sighed and rolled his eyes. He figured it had to be Vesemir again, returning for a second lecture, scolding him about how naïve and gullible he was. It was either him or Yastic, and frankly, he didn’t want to deal with either old man at the moment. A few seconds later, he heard the footsteps come to a stop behind him, but he didn’t even bother to turn around.

“Uh…excu…excuse me,” came a young voice.

Geralt furrowed his brow, stood and turned around. There was short, brown-haired fodder in the doorway of the stall, and he was holding a lantern in his hand.

“What is it?” he asked, towering over the boy. Of course, that wasn’t shocking any longer. He towered over all the fodder. A year past, he’d started an incredible growth spurt, and he was now only an inch or two shorter than Master Vesemir.

“I…I was told to come down to the stables…to help. Is there a…Mister Yastic around?”

“I haven’t seen him yet. What are you supposed to be helping him with?”

“I…I don’t know. Master Kalen just said that he was hurt and needed help. So, I’m supposed to help him this morning and then again tonight after dinner.”

“Well, don’t worry. The chores down here are simple. Boring but simple.”

“Oh…okay.”

Geralt was just turning back around to his foal when the boy spoke again.

“Do you…do you remember me?”

The velpe narrowed his eyes, looking closely at the boy. He shook his head.

“Not really, but to be honest, over the years, all you fodder have started to look alike.”

“Oh…okay,” said the boy, his chin falling slightly.

“Am I supposed to remember you?”

“Well, about four months ago, I was…well, you beat up a few boys that were, you know, beating me up. So, I just thought that…maybe, you know…”

Geralt nodded.

“I remember that, sure.”

He did remember the incident, but he honestly didn’t remember this boy’s face. Since he never befriended fodder and was rarely even around them, he never concerned himself with remembering what any of them looked like. But he always stepped in if he ever saw what he thought was an unfair situation, and a small boy surrounded and being pummeled by a group of fodder certainly qualified as unfair in his mind. He’d seen that particular scenario one night as he was walking past the barracks on his way to the stables.

“Have they messed with you at all since then?”

“No. Oh, they’ll still say mean things now and then, but they haven’t touched me since. I wanted to thank you…back then, I mean, but I…well. Anyway…thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Glad I could help.”

“Your name’s Geralt, right?”

The velpe gave a nod.

The boy smiled and extended his hand. “My name is -”

“Wait!” interrupted Geralt, with his hand raised up. “I don’t want to know your name.”

A look of confusion suddenly crossed the boy’s face, and a moment later, it was replaced with hurt as he dropped his hand to his side.

“Oh…okay, I just thought because…”

“Well, no offense, but you thought wrong, kid.”

“Okay. I’ll…I’ll leave you alone, then.”

Geralt watched the fodder – chin on chest and shoulders slumped – turn around. Just as the little boy was about to leave the stall, Geralt sighed.

“Kid…do you like horses?”

The boy turned around and gave a tentative nod.

“You want to see the cutest horse ever?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Then come in here. Bring your lantern.”

The boy entered the stall and approached the foal. Geralt saw a big grin on the boy’s face, but it quickly turned into a frown.

“What’s wrong with her? What’s on her legs?”

Geralt had all four of her legs splinted.

“She was born incredibly windswept. You know what that means?”

“Yeah…my family has a couple of horses. I used to have a pony.”

Geralt bent down, picked the little foal up and placed her on her hooves. He very slowly removed his hands from her sides as she struggled to maintain her balance. She lasted about three seconds before falling onto to her side into the hay.

“She’s getting better every time I work with her. I’m hoping by the end of the week that she’ll be able to stand – and then nurse – on her own.”

The boy knelt down and softly rubbed his hand along the foal’s neck and side.

“She is pretty,” he said with a smile. “What’s her name?”

“I haven’t named her yet.”

That wasn’t actually true. He already knew what he was going to call her if she survived, and he had even accidentally referred to her by that name in his head several times already. He just refused to say the name out loud.

“Do you know why…?” But he didn’t finish his question. He just sighed and shook his head. “Why does no one around here like using names?”

Geralt looked into the little boy’s confused eyes. He remembered the same feeling when he was a fodder. The not understanding.

“Tell you what, kid – once you survive the Trial of Grasses, then you can tell me your name. Deal?”

The boy continued to look at Geralt for a moment, and then the velpe saw something change in the little boy’s eyes. He could tell that the fodder suddenly understood. A moment later, with pursed lips, he gave Geralt a small nod.

“And…if you want, you can come down here whenever you like and help me with the horses. Okay?”

The boy gave another nod and smiled.

“That’d be great. Thanks, Geralt.”

oOo

Geralt had his sword drawn and held in the defensive position in front of him. Sweat was trickling down his face, and he was doing his best to breathe slow and steady, trying to keep his thoughts calm.

_‘A witcher no knows fear,’_ he said to himself.

He was turning in a slow circle, just waiting for his next target to appear, but at the moment, all he could see was a giant ring of gray smoke encircling him. He suddenly heard a whooshing sound, and, a second later, the smoke instantly disappeared.

Geralt’s eyes widened slightly as he saw a half-a-dozen nekkers surrounding him and coming his way. His mind flashed back a decade past, to a little boy running towards his mother, being chased by nekkers that looked just like the ones that were now before him. But the memory only lasted a micro-second – gone as fast as it had arrived. He took his left hand off the hilt of his sword, quickly cast a Quen Sign, and immediately ducked and rolled under the first nekker’s attack. He came up onto the balls of his feet and swung his sword true, bisecting the nekker through the midsection. And from that point on, he simply allowed his years of training to take over. He dodged and pirouetted through the attacking nekkers, never showing his back to one of the little beasts for longer than a blink of the eye. At the same time, his sword was a blur – slicing through legs and arms and piercing chests and necks. Less than a minute later, it was all over – nekker corpses and body parts laying on the ground around him. He was breathing fast, but he was also pleased – thinking that he had avoided all their attacks. However, it was then that he noticed that his Quen shield was no longer active, meaning that they must have made contact after all. He shook his head, realizing that he’d been so ‘in the moment’ during the battle that he hadn’t even noticed it. 

The velpe was just about to sheath his sword when he heard another whooshing sound. Instantly, he was surrounded by the thick smoke again. A second later, the darkness disappeared, and he looked to his left to see a snorting chort charging right at him.

He dove to his right, just missing getting trampled, and, as he scrambled to his feet, he grasped a bomb from his belt and tossed it at the back of the beast. The bomb exploded, catching the chort on fire, and the monster immediately dropped onto its side and began rolling around on the ground. A few seconds later, the fire was out, and the monster was back on its feet. But those few seconds were just long enough for Geralt to compose himself. He signed another Quen and scanned through his memory – recalling the chort’s bestiary entry – remembering its strengths, weaknesses, and fighting tendencies. He tossed another bomb at the monster, and before the explosive had even detonated, he was already sprinting directly at the chort.

As with the first incendiary device, the chort caught on fire when the second bomb exploded, and as it was doing its best to extinguish the flames, Geralt skipped close, wielding his sword. However, as opposed to the fast – and sometimes one-handed – attacks he’d used with the nekkers, he was striking the big monster with powerful, two-handed blows. He kept the large beast at bay with a short blast of Igni fire and then, immediately, hopped forward with a follow-up sword strike. He then quickly hopped backwards, out of range of its horns and claws. He repeated this routine several times.

As with the nekkers, this battle lasted only a minute. Eventually, the chort succumbed to the dozens of injuries to its body. The beast’s legs gave out, and as soon as it fell to the ground, Geralt sprinted forward and plunged his blade through its head.

The teen was breathing heavy and sweat was running down his face. He was thinking, _‘That wasn’t so bad,’_ when he was suddenly hit from behind. Fortunately, he was able to stay on his feet. Unfortunately, a nekker was on his back, screaming in his ear, and doing its best to claw and bite him to death. It helped Geralt immensely that the nekker was missing its right arm. The velpe immediately reached up with his left hand and grabbed the nekker by the neck while at the same time twisting his body. He slammed the badly wounded nekker to the ground and skewered the beast’s heart with his sword. He instantly looked up, scanning the area around him, seeing if there were any other of the monsters that he hadn’t finished off.

Just then, he heard another whooshing sound.

_‘Another one?’_ he thought.

But instead of another monster appearing, the illusion around him disappeared, revealing all of the Kaer Morhen cadre perched atop a raised platform, staring down at him. Standing in the middle of the training grounds, the velpe glanced up at them, scanning their faces, and he didn’t see a single smile. He quickly found Vesemir’s face, and he grimaced a bit inside when he saw that old man wasn’t smiling either. Of course, that meant nothing. His sword instructor rarely – if ever – smiled and certainly not when sword training was involved. But the dour looks on everyone’s face didn’t faze him. That’s what he was used to, and he didn’t need their smiles to know that he’d done well enough. The Trial of the Medallion would be next, and then, after that, he’d never have to see this shithole or anyone in it ever again.

A minute later, Vesemir was down on the grounds, standing next to him.

“You’re lucky. Had that been a real nekker, you’d be cut up right now.”

Geralt nodded. He knew that the old witcher was right. The golems that Hieronymus created for the penultimate trial – the Trial of Golems - were incredibly life-like, but the mage did craft the monsters with severely dulled teeth, horns, and claws. No one wanted a velpe to die so close to ‘graduating.’

“So, instead of standing around after the nekker battle looking pleased with yourself, what could you have done instead?”

“Removed their heads, Master Vesemir. Ensure they were dead.”

The instructor nodded.

“The rest of it…you could improve a few things, but…not bad.”

Geralt furrowed his brows at his instructor. He couldn’t believe it. That was as close to a compliment as he’d ever heard from the old man. He hated to admit it – and he’d certainly never let Vesemir know – but he suddenly felt really good inside.

oOo

Geralt was glaring at everyone – at Fedun, at Vesemir, at Master Elgar and every other cadre member who was standing in a line, and especially at Kalen. For the past decade, every summer, he’d watched at least one velpe – standing in their brand new witcher’s armor - go through their ‘graduation’ ceremony. After Master Elgar placed their activated medallion around their neck, the new witcher would shake hands with his Wolf School brethren – all the cadre - and then he’d hop on his horse and hit the Path. Every time, Geralt would imagine just what the new witcher must be feeling as he exited Kaer Morhen’s gates. The relief…the joy of finally having their freedom, of finally having control over their own lives. Because he’d arrived at Kaer Morhen at such a young age, he was sure that no velpe had ever spent as much time training for his graduation day as he had, and this summer was supposed to finally be his year – to finally know that feeling of liberation. But then he’d received the news – that one of the cadre members had deemed him unready to face the Trial of the Medallion.

He hadn’t been told which cadre member had ‘blackballed’ him, but, as he continued to glare at Master Kalen, he thought he had a very good idea of just who it was. It was the only thing that made sense. He was sure that none of his actual instructors had been the one to deny him for there wasn’t a single discipline that he wasn’t at least proficient in. So, it was only logical that Kalen was the one. The ugly, scarred bastard had been the bane of Geralt’s existence from the first day that he’d stepped foot inside the keep. But in the last five years – since Geralt had passed the Trial of Grasses – Kalen had lost a great degree of control over the velpe. Geralt knew that that must have aggravated the miserable prick. But, now, after five years, Kalen finally got the chance to stick it to him again. As Geralt continued to stare at black-haired witcher, he knew that the whoreson must be laughing on the inside, and Geralt wanted to kill him.

As soon as Fedun mounted his horse and headed to the front gates, Geralt turned and strode for the stables. He knew that he needed to be alone. He didn’t know what he might do if he was around anyone. And he certainly didn’t want to be anywhere near Kalen.

A minute later, he walked into the barn and headed to a stall on the right. He stopped a few steps from the door and tried to control his breathing. He knew horses were very sensitive to humans’ moods, and he didn’t want to upset her. Eventually, he exhaled deeply, put a fake smile on his face, and entered the stall.

“Hello, girl. You doing okay?” he said as he rubbed his horse along her nose and neck. “Come on, Roach. Let’s go for a walk. That sound good?”

He placed a halter on the foal and led her out to the corral where he had her walk around him in circles. Her gait was still a bit awkward and he never let her go faster than a walk, but it was progress, he thought. Three of the legs looked to be straightening out, but the front, right leg still concerned him. It was bent much more than the rest. If it didn’t improve, he doubted that she’d ever be able to go faster than a trot. And who knew if the leg would ever be strong enough to hold up under the additional weight of a rider.

“But that’s still a long way off, girl,” he said out loud. “We probably got at least a year or so before you start hauling me around.”

Geralt worked her for a little while longer and then took her back to the stall where, after giving her some food and drink, he rubbed her down.

When he was almost through, he heard a sound behind him. He sighed and rolled his eyes. He just wanted to be left alone. All he wanted was to hang out by himself with his horse, but no, he wasn’t even allowed to do that. For his entire life, people had been constantly pestering him, picking at him. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be, he thought.

After a long moment of silence, he finally asked, “So, how long are you gonna just stand there not saying anything?”

“She’s coming along fine,” said Vesemir, standing just outside the door of the stall.

Geralt turned around and faced his teacher.

“Yeah, she is. She’s gonna make it after all.”

Vesemir looked at her front leg.

“Think so? Sure that leg will be able to hold a rider?”

“It’s irrelevant.”

Vesemir grunted, which Geralt knew to be his version of a laugh.

“Maybe to her. But not to anyone who – you know, actually wants to ride her. Or, are you saying you’re not planning to ride her?”

The teenager shrugged.

“We’ll see. If I can’t, then no big deal. I’ll just find a nice meadow and release her.”

Vesemir just shook his head.

“You are a piece of work, kid. A piece of work.”

“I know that you didn’t come down here just to talk about horses. So…are you here to give me another lecture? I think I’ve heard them all by now.”

“No. No lecture. Thought you just might want a drink.”

Vesemir held up his hand, showing a jug.

Geralt sighed and shook his head. “Why not?”

Five minutes later the two were sitting on a bench in the corral resting their backs against the side of the barn. Vesemir took a swig and then offered the jug to Geralt. The velpe sniffed at the opening and looked at his instructor.

“Vodka?”

He knew the smell of virtually every alcohol ever made due to his alchemy training. He’d been taught – among other things – which ones were the best to use as a base for witcher potions and decoctions.

Vesemir nodded, and Geralt took a pull.

“Do velpen still swipe drinks of alcohol in alchemy class?”

Geralt nodded as he gazed over the top of the outer wall at the mountains off in the distance.

“Sometimes. Master Frisu knows – he sees everything that goes on in his lab - but yeah, sometimes. It’s typically just the younger ones, and once they discover that a nip here or there doesn’t actually affect them at all, they stop. They’d need the whole bottle to feel anything, and Master Frisu certainly wouldn’t let them get away with that.”

“I guess some things never change. I can remember sneaking sips in alchemy class back when I was a young velpe.”

Geralt shook his head. “I can’t even imagine that.”

“What – me stealing a swig?”

“No…that you were ever young.”

Vesemir let out his half grunt, half laugh. “Yeah, well, I was. And I was a lot like you, in fact.”

“Please,” scoffed the teen.

“I was.”

“Yeah, how so?”

Vesemir took another drink and handed the jug back to Geralt.

“Do you remember me telling you the story of my brother, Laramir? I may have been drunk that night, but not so drunk that I don’t remember our conversation.”

Geralt suddenly felt a little awkward at the mention of that night and quickly looked away from the old man, back towards the mountains. But he did nod his head.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, Geralt, there are two kinds of witchers that leave Kaer Morhen. The majority – I’d say most – take all of our training and teachings to heart, and they go straight to the Path and they stick to it. Year in, year out until fate finally catches up to them. Until one night, they’re too slow with their sword or they miscalculate the speed of the monster’s attack…or they just get careless.

“But the other kind _doesn’t_ stick to the Path. They leave here and think back to their loving families – their ma or their pa – it’s usually their mother. They say, ‘To hell with being a witcher. I’m going back home.’ Or, at the very least, they think they can straddle the two worlds - be a witcher _and_ have a home at the same time. Believe it or not…that’s what I did.”

Geralt immediately turned his head toward the witcher, his brow deeply furrowed. The truth was that he _couldn’t_ believe it.

“Not straight away, mind you. I waited a few years, but eventually, I couldn’t stop thinking of Laramir – and the rest of my family, but mostly Laramir. 

“So, I headed back home, hoping for warm family reunion. When I finally made it there, there was a new family living in our old house. Turns out both Ma and Pa had died from some kind of epidemic, and Laramir had to move away. I eventually found him, though.”

Geralt couldn’t take his eyes off of Vesemir, and at that point, he saw the old man actually smile…well, it was kind of a smile. The velpe thought he could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Vesemir with anything other than a scowl on his face. And here he was, actually smiling.

“That was a great day – well, at first. We hugged and laughed and talked. He didn’t care that my eyes looked different…or that I carried swords on my back and killed monsters for a living. And for just a second there, I thought I might just get my brother back. That I might just get to have a family again. That was, until I met his wife. He was just a teenager, but he was already married with a kid on the way. And I…I made the wife ‘ _uncomfortable_ ,’ he said. Truth was – I terrified her. Too many rumors about heartless witchers stealing babies and other such nonsense, and with her being pregnant, well…there you go. Absolute foolishness. As if we’d know how the hell to raise babies. Hell, we nearly killed you and you were already five when you got here.

“So, she gave him an ultimatum, and, of course, he picked her over me. And I can’t say I blame him. Man’s supposed to put his wife and kid first, right? But I learned a valuable lesson that day, Geralt. You can never go home. Witchers…we can never go home. I’ve lost count – over the centuries – of witchers who told me they’d tried. And it’s never worked out. Not once. Not once. The fates…they just won’t allow it.”

The gray haired witcher took another drink.

“Why…why are you telling me this?” asked Geralt.

“To spare you the pain. Whatever fond memories you may have of your family, leave them be. Keep them inside. Protect them. Because if you try to go back, you’re gonna spoil them.”

“I…I still don’t know why you think this applies to me – why you think I’d try to go back home.”

Vesemir sighed as he looked Geralt in the eyes.

“Geralt, I was there when Hieronymus put you under that second time. I’d come by every day. And when you weren’t screaming out in pain, you were only doing one other thing - calling out for your Mama.”

The teen quickly dropped his gaze, unable to look at the witcher.

“I don’t know if she’s alive or dead, but trust me, Geralt, leave it alone.”

Geralt suddenly stood up from the bench and walked a few yards into the corral. He stood there in silence for a few moments, and when he turned around, his jaws were clenched.

“You know what – just because something happened to you two hundred years ago, doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen to me. And, hell, apparently it doesn’t matter anyway since I may never leave this bloody prison. I swear – that bloody Kalen – I’m gonna kill him. If anyone should have ridden out of those gates today, it should have been me. I’m _twice_ the swordsman that Fedun is. It’s not bloody fair!”

Vesemir sighed.

“And this -” and he pointed at Geralt “- is why you’re not ready.”

“What?”

“This, right here. ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair.’ No shit. Life’s not fair. The world out there isn’t fair. And the fact that you get so worked-up when it isn’t just proves you’re not ready to face it. Geralt, listen to me – you’re right – you’re much more skilled than Fedun. Hell, you handle a sword better than any velpe I’ve ever trained. But there’s more to being a witcher than just being good with a sword. You _have_ to be able to control your emotions – _all_ of them…otherwise, they’re gonna control you. If you’re too kind, too trusting, you’ll let yourself get taken advantage of. If you’re too full of anger, then you’ll end up slaughtering anyone and everyone who ever does you wrong. And neither of those outcomes is good – not for a professional. To be a good witcher – a _professional_ witcher - you need to be able to view the world and yourself in a certain way. To have a certain…emotional detachment…a cold logic. And right now, you don’t got it.”

“Is that right? You don’t think I can be cold and detached?”

Vesemir stared Geralt down and then took another drink. He slowly wiped his mustache.

“Asks the kid who’s gonna find a pretty meadow so his crippled pony can have a home.”

Geralt’s eyes bore into Vesemir’s, and he gripped his hands so tightly that they started to tremble.

“I’m going out,” he growled.

He walked as calmly as he could to the bench, picked up his swords that he’d rested against the wall, and exited the corral. As soon as he was out of Vesemir’s sight, he took off at a sprint toward the front gates, but he didn’t stop there. He kept running right down the narrow, dirt road, past the river crossing and straight up into the mountains. He ran for hours, trying to put as much distance between himself and Kaer Morhen as he could. Between himself and everything that the run-down fortress represented. Between himself and all the words that Vesemir had spoken.

_‘Screw that old man,’_ thought the teen after he’d finally stopped and stood atop a ridge, high in the mountains.

A full moon was overhead, and there was a deep valley below him. His eyes scanned the valley and then gazed at the mountain range on the other side. Even though it was the summer months, he could see that the highest peaks were still capped with snow. And no matter which direction he looked, Kaer Morhen was nowhere to be seen. That realization made him nod his head.

_‘He’s just a bitter old man, pissed off because he’s stuck in that hellhole for the rest of his life,’_ he thought _. ‘And he doesn’t know shit about me. He’s just trying keep me down – keep me under his thumb. Just like they’ve all done. Kalen, Elgar, Reisel, Miro, all of them. He’s no different.’_

As the teen’s breathing began to slow, he looked up at the full moon. And, he suddenly felt warmth inside, thinking that the same moon that was shining down on him might be shining down on her, too.

“I don’t care what he says,” he spoke out loud. “I’m gonna find you, Mom.”

After giving another nod of his head at that declaration, he looked around him. He realized that he’d never been on that particular ridge before, but he wasn’t worried. He’d been out in the mountains by himself countless times over the past year. The older and bigger that he got – and the more skilled at sword-wielding that he became – the more that he ventured out into the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. He relished the freedom that he felt being away from the oppression of the keep. And though he had been forced in his various sojourns to kill a few dangerous beasts – a small pack of wolves, an aggressive bear, and even a few drowners – he knew that the mountains weren’t as dangerous as the cadre implied. And even if they were, so what, he thought. He was very confident in his witcher skills.

And it was at that point that he wondered why he just didn’t leave. In fact, if it weren’t for that bloody whoreson – Kalen – he’d be on the Path at that very moment. He didn’t think that there was anything else his instructors could teach him, so then why shouldn’t he leave? Would the cadre even care? Would they track him down and try to force him to come back? If they tried, would he draw his sword on them? 

The teenager stood still and in silence for the longest time, pondering those questions. He didn’t know the answers, but, suddenly, he furrowed his brow at a fleeting thought that had crossed his mind. And the thought had been – _‘I want that medallion.’_ But that confused him. Why should he want the damn thing? He loathed Kaer Morhen and everything it stood for. Why should he want something that represented years of torturous abuse?

“Because I’ve earned the damn thing,” he said out loud through clenched jaws. “Even if I never wear it…I’ve earned it. If anyone ever has, it’s me.”

But there was a second answer as well. An answer that was much more unpalatable than the first. An answer that he didn’t want to voice out loud. The truth was that part of the reason that he didn’t just up and leave was that he was scared. He was scared because he honestly didn’t know what the world was going to be like. The only clear memories he had of the world before Kaer Morhen were those with his mother. But what if she was dead and he was left alone? What would he do then? And what if the world was just as harsh as Vesemir warned him it was? As much as he hated Kaer Morhen, at least it was a known entity, but the world outside…he just didn’t know. Sure, as part of his education, he’d been forced to read books on the various aspects of society – the numerous kingdoms, how economies worked, the different social classes, the countless religions – but he knew that reading about something and actually experiencing it couldn’t even compare. It was like the difference between reading about a monster in the bestiary versus actually facing it on your own.

So, was that it? Was that the real reason he didn’t leave – because of fear? He hated to admit it, but maybe Vesemir was right. Maybe he _was_ too full of emotions – empathy, sadness, anger, and fear. He felt them all.

But, _‘A witcher knows no fear,’_ came a voice in his head.

The teen then looked back up at the moon and sighed.

“Then, I’m not meant to be a witcher,” he said out loud. “Because I’ve been scared my whole life.”

Geralt stood there for a while longer, and then, eventually, he looked to his right, up to a summit that wasn’t very far way. Without even thinking, he turned and began walking up the ridge towards it, his mind still going over all the thoughts he’d just had. A few minutes later, he reached the summit, and he was suddenly pulled out of his thoughts as his senses kicked in. He stood frozen in place – for right in from of him were several enormous nests, filled with at least two dozen, giant harpies.

His breath was caught in his throat, and his eyes were rapidly scanning back and forth. He swallowed and began to breathe softly when he realized that all the harpies seemed to be sleeping, their heads tucked underneath their wings. He took a small step backward, hoping to leave the area and the monsters undisturbed. As he was taking his second step backward, he suddenly heard a horrific shriek. He immediately looked up to see one of the harpies staring directly at him and spreading her wings wide – at least ten feet across from tip to tip. Instantly, all of the other harpies woke, and the air filled with their sharp cries.

“Damn it!” exclaimed the velpe as he immediately drew his steel sword.

His mind instantly focused on the task at hand as he was suddenly swarmed. A Quen Sign was followed by an Aard. A pirouette and a slash of his sword, and then came Igni. He dodged and rolled, swung his blade, and cast one Sign after another. But there were just too many monsters for the unprepared velpe who had taken no potions nor crafted any blade-oils before the impromptu battle. He was thinning the pack – the large, flying beasts’ blood and feathers exploding through the air – but he was also taking a lot of damage, their sharp claws and feet slicing through his thin shirt and trousers.

Geralt rolled away from a diving harpy, and as he came to his feet near the edge of the summit, his boot slipped. Suddenly, he was tumbling down a steep slope. As his body spun faster and faster and his frame repeatedly impacted the rocky ground, he only had one thought in his head – _‘Hang on to your sword. Hang on to your sword.’_

Halfway down the slope, his ankle smashed against something hard, and he heard a cracking sound, causing him to yell out - the pain shooting through his lower leg. Unfortunately, whatever he’d hit had not stopped his momentum because he was still rolling down the slope at a fast pace and totally out of control. Amazingly, through the chaos, his ears were still able to pick up the sounds of shrieking harpies. They were obviously flying down the mountain in pursuit.

Eventually, his body stopped spinning, and though he continued sliding down the mountain, it wasn’t near as fast as before. He assumed that the steep slope must be leveling out and that he must be getting close to the bottom of the inclined cliff face. A moment later, he impacted a large boulder, jarring his body to a stop and knocking the wind from his lungs. Worse still, his sword flew from his grip. The velpe lay on his back, holding his side and gasping for breath, but none would come. His mind was frantic, knowing the harpies would arrive at any moment. From the sounds of their shrieking, he could hear them getting closer. He was up on one knee and trying to stand when a large shadow fell over him. He instantly looked up, and there before him was a giant troll. His eyes widened, and he swallowed for he had never seen one in real life. It towered over him, and, then, the enormous monster pounded his chest and let loose with a menacing roar. 

_‘Not good,’_ thought Geralt. _‘Not good at all.’_

oOo

_Day 4 – Dothan; February 1194_

After his talk with the priest, Geralt rode back to Anisberg, arriving a little after noon. He headed straight to the palace, wanting to talk with King Travid. He hoped that he could get more information about Brother Johan’s death, particularly the priest’s last words. But as he was heading through the halls of the palace, he ran into Delyla.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out at the Lebioda temple, talking with Brother Kennit.”

Delyla’s brow furrowed.

“But why? Why would you go out there?”

“Come on, let’s go to my room,” he said grabbing her hand.

Once they were in his bedchamber, the witcher explained everything to his friend, including his suppositions about the curse. 

“Oh, my gosh!” Delyla exclaimed. “All of that happened just a few months before I started working here, but I remember hearing about it. But, Geralt, how can this be a curse? You even admitted that Brother Kennit said that this other priest didn’t know anything about magic.”

“Well, it’s true that the most powerful curses are typically invoked by magic users – mages and sorceresses - but it’s possible for anyone to bring about a curse if the circumstances line up.”

“Circumstances? Like what?”

“Well, a lot of things. What exact words did the person speak? That’s why I want to talk to Travid, to find out. Also, was the speaker in a highly emotional state? The stronger the emotions, the greater the chance of invoking a curse. And I’ve got to believe that the priest’s emotions were high if he knew he was about to be killed. And, finally, the night this occurred was Midinvaerne. Magic is incredibly powerful on that night. It infuses everything. I’ve even read of cases where common folk were able to accidentally tap into it.”

“So, he could have said something as simple as, ‘A curse on House Dothan,’ before he died, and that would be enough?”

“Yeah, it’s possible.”

“And so, this monster is…what?”

“I still don’t know, but I think it might be the priest’s re-animated corpse – alive and transformed into one hell of a scary beast seeking revenge. That’s also why I want to know what happened to his body.”

“So, what now?”

“Now? I’ve got to talk with the king.”

Unfortunately, his talk with Travid would have to wait. He was informed that the king was in his bedchambers indisposed. The witcher guessed that ‘indisposed’ meant that he was passed-out drunk. Travid had apparently been up all night with his military officers, discussing countless strategies on how to invade the Rivian and Lyrian embassies. And it was a safe bet – thought Geralt - that the monarch had been in his cups the entire time.

_‘So, who else might know what the priest’s last words were?’_ the teen wondered.

And then it came to him – Sir Alyn.

The witcher eventually tracked the captain of the guards down in the palace grounds. He’d been walking the perimeter, checking the walls and gates for any possible breaches of security. Geralt told him his theory about the curse, and then asked him if he’d been present when the priest had died.

“Well, let me first say, Geralt, that I’m impressed with your professionalism and perseverance. When I first met you, I mistook your youthfulness and shabby appearance with irresponsibility and an undisciplined nature. I was clearly mistaken and…I hope that you will accept my humblest apologies.”

Geralt stood there, not really knowing what to say. He wasn’t sure that anyone had ever apologized to him before. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, Sir Alyn. It’s no problem.”

“Thank you,” said the knight with a small nod. “And while I admire your dogged determination and resourcefulness, I, unfortunately, have bad news for your theory. For, you see, I am capable of answering both of your queries. Firstly, the priest’s body was cremated. So, I don’t know for sure – you’re the expert – but I would highly doubt that a curse could reanimate ashes.”

Geralt sighed. “Damn it. Yeah, I’ve never heard of that happening before. It’s still possible, but it’d have to be an incredibly strong curse.”

“Secondly, I _do_ know what Brother Johan’s last words were…for it was my blade that ended his life.”

“You? You killed the priest? But he was an innocent man. He hadn’t really done anything…certainly not anything to deserve that.”

The witcher saw Sir Alyn clench his jaws.

“Geralt, the king ordered it done. It was not for me to question why. Only to follow the king’s commands. That is my duty as the captain of his royal guard. If I can’t follow orders, then I should resign my post and renounce my knighthood.”

Geralt stared at the knight for several seconds. While the man’s face may have looked resolute, the teen thought that the captain’s eyes betrayed him.

“So, what did he say, Sir Alyn? What were Brother Johan’s last words?”

Birke glanced a way for a moment, as if lost in thought, and then brought his eyes back to Geralt’s. 

“I still remember it…vividly. He was on his knees, and he looked up at me with the most serene look on his face. And he told me that he forgave me. That doesn’t sound like a curse to me.”

Geralt sighed.

“No. No it doesn’t.”

oOo

The witcher was stumped – stumped and frustrated. Every time he thought he had the right thread to pull in order to unravel the mystery of the monster, either he’d found no evidence to support his theory or the evidence flat out refuted it. In Geralt’s mind, the two strongest suspects had been, first, Rojet and then the Lebiodan priest, but both of those avenues had led to a dead end – both literally and figuratively. He thought that Prince Roope or either of the ambassadors could still be behind the killings, but so far, he didn’t have any proof implicating any of them. 

He finally decided to do something that he realized he should have done from the very beginning. He was going to search the castle – every room from bottom to top. And for the rest of the day, starting in the dungeons, that’s exactly what he did. It was slow, monotonous work. He’d enter a room and, with his medallion in hand, he’d look through every drawer, armoire, desk, and shelf. He searched under beds and inside chimneys. He didn’t truly know what he was looking for, but he hoped he’d know it when he found it. Several of the rooms were locked, so he eventually found a chambermaid and demanded a skeleton key. She balked at first, but once he showed her the scroll with the king’s decree, she relented.

During his search, the teen found a lot of items hidden under clothes or mattresses – anisetz gems, objects that looked like they were of a sexual nature, cheap and worthless talismans to fight off evil spirits, and the like. But what he didn’t find was any clue tied to the monster. That is, until he reached the penultimate floor.

The sun had already set – and he figured that he’d already searched close to a hundred rooms - by the time he came to a dark, and seemingly unused, hallway on the fourth story. He assumed that it was unoccupied due to the unlit lanterns hanging on wall hooks. Everywhere else in the palace – or at least everywhere that rooms were used – the hallways were illumined by lit lanterns. He quickly went through the first couple of rooms on the hallway but found nothing of significance. And the sheets covering the furniture and the small layer of dust on the floor confirmed his suspicions about the hallway. He came to the last door on the hallway and found it locked but quickly used his key to enter. He opened the door to see that is was nothing but a small supply closet, filled with brooms, mops, and buckets. But that’s when the medallion in his hand vibrated. 

The witcher immediately stepped back, put the medallion in his trousers’ pocket, and unsheathed his silver sword. He stood completely still as his senses went on full alert. He didn’t see, hear, smell, or feel anything out of the ordinary, but there was no mistake – his wolf-head had twitched. After about a minute of not moving – barely even breathing – he took a small step forward toward the threshold of the closet, his eyes scanning in every direction. Slowly, he reached out with his sword and touched the various cleaning supplies stored within. They all felt solid against his blade. Finally, he took a second step forward and carefully stuck the tip of his blade into the back wall. His eyes widened slightly when the sword went straight through. 

“An illusion,” he whispered to himself. 

He thrust the blade in deeper but still felt no resistance. Eventually, he withdrew his sword and took a final step forward. He was inside the closet, just inches away from its imaginary back wall. He lifted his hand, brought his fingertips up to the wall, and with a deep exhalation, pushed his hand forward. He let out a small sigh as his hand went straight through the wall with no negative effects. 

“Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The witcher stepped through the illusion and immediately stopped in his tracks.

“Holy hell,” he whispered.

The last room on the hall wasn’t a closet after all. It was bedchamber more or less like Geralt’s. There was one big difference, though. All the furniture had been pushed towards the walls and in the middle of the room, on the floor, was an enormous pentagram. There were unlit – but half-burned - candles right where the points of the star met with the outer circle. Inside the pentagram, where the lines of the star crossed each other were various objects. The witcher stepped close, stopping just outside of the circle. He bent down and narrowed his eyes. Where two of the lines intersected was a bloody rag, but he could tell that the blood was old. He quickly scanned the other objects and saw a second bloody rag; a metal, alchemical saucer filled with a clump of hair; and a small, clear jar filled with…

_‘Is that semen?’_ asked the witcher, squinting his eyes at the thick, white fluid.

He moved his eyes to his right, and on the floor, just outside of the pentagram was a thick book. It was closed, and there was a title on the cover, ‘Cladhaich Dorchadais.’

“Into the Darkness,” he said aloud.

He’d never read the book – he hadn’t even heard of it before – but he’d had enough lessons from Hieronymus back at Kaer Morhen to know that he was standing in the middle of some seriously black magic. Had he been right about Rojet, after all? Was he somehow involved in the killings? Because there were no other wielders of magic at the palace. He had specifically asked Sir Alyn that question on the first day, and the captain had assured him that there were no ‘junior’ mages in residence. So, if this dark shrine wasn’t Rojet’s, then whose was it?

Geralt was just about to reach for the book when he suddenly heard his name being shouted from somewhere far away. He quickly exited the room and, once in the hallway, he heard the shouting getting closer. 

“I’m here!” he yelled out and began moving down the hallway. He turned the corner and saw Delyla running in his direction. Her face was flushed and she was breathing heavily.

“Thank the gods,” she said between deep breaths. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“What is it?” 

“Alyn says that the monster is going to strike again tonight and that he knows where! He said that he looked for you for a while but couldn’t find you. So, he told me to track you down and give you the message.”

“What message? Where’s the monster going to attack?”

“The Dothan country estate. He left with a company of men at least an hour ago.”

“The country estate? That…that doesn’t make any sense. Are you sure?”

Delyla shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

Why would the monster – whatever it was - go to the country estate? As far as the witcher knew, with Prince Mathias now dead, there was no longer any member of House Dothan at that residence. But, if there was one thing that the teen had learned over the last four days, it was that Captain Birke was a man of duty. He wouldn’t do anything that would put the king or the rest of the royal family at risk. So, if he said that the monster would attack at the estate, then Geralt was going to trust him. The witcher was sure that the knight had informers and sources all over the city. Perhaps, one of them had heard something and passed it along.

Ten minutes later, with the full moon shining down, the witcher was riding a palace horse at a gallop through the streets of Anisberg. He hoped that he could get to the Dothan estate in time.


	13. Chapter 13

_Kaer Morhen - 1193_

The giant troll roared again, and Geralt quickly scanned the ground around him. He didn’t see his steel sword anywhere so he did the only thing that he knew to do. He cast a Quen Sign and reached for the silver sword on his back. He knew that the softer metal wouldn’t cause as near as much damage as his steel blade – and that it would probably be damaged against the tough hide of the troll - but he was running out of options, especially since he had no bombs on his belt. Just as he was about to unsheathe the sword, the troll stepped past him, facing the incoming harpies. As the flying monsters dove at the troll, it swung its massive arms through the air. The harpies immediately shifted direction to evade the beast’s slow punches, but one came too close, and the troll was able to grab a wing in its enormous hand. The harpy let out a cry just before the troll smashed it several times into the ground.

Geralt took advantage of the opportunity and began crawling away from the fight, his eyes, once again, scanning the area for his steel sword. Behind him, he could hear absolute carnage – harpies shrieking, the troll roaring. He quickly glanced over his shoulder to see that the giant monster now had a dead harpy in each hand with two more at his feet. He was using the dead harpies like clubs, trying to swat the last two, still-flying bird-like creatures out of the air.

The velpe tried to get to his feet, but he couldn’t stand, much less walk. He knew his leg was shattered, and he knelt back down and continued to crawl away. Suddenly, his eye caught something shiny in the moonlight. He headed in that direction and exhaled deeply when he realized that it was his steel sword, but that was also when he realized that all was quiet. He looked over his shoulder again and saw the troll walking right at him, holding two dead harpies in each giant-sized hand.

Geralt immediately turned around and began scurrying towards his steel sword as fast as he could. He grasped the hilt, grimaced at the pain as he struggled to his knees, and held the weapon out in front of him. The troll was only a few paces away, no longer advancing, just staring at him. It crooked its head first to one side and then the other. After a moment, the troll made some sound with his mouth. To Geralt, it sounded like nothing more than a series of gargles and grunts, but after a second, he realized that the troll was speaking to him – trying to communicate. The teen, of course, had no idea what it was saying, but he was relieved that the troll was no longer roaring and that an attack didn’t seem imminent at the moment. 

As the troll gazed at Geralt, the velpe did the same back. The monster was over nine feet tall and probably weighed a ton. It didn’t appear to have a large, rock-like hump on its back, so Geralt figured that it was a simple cave troll. He also noticed that it had a giant penis dangling between its legs, almost as big as his forearm. He quickly lifted his eyes back to the those of the troll and spoke.

“I don’t understand you,” said the teen, using the calmest voice he could. “Do you understand me? Do you speak Common?”

The troll bent his head to the side again, and let loose with some more gargles and grunts.

“Swell.”

The troll lifted his left arm and pointed a giant finger over Geralt’s shoulder. The velpe really didn’t want to take his eyes off of the troll, but then he thought – what the hell – the troll didn’t need to try and trick him. If he wanted to attack, he would just attack. So Geralt turned his body and, for the first time, was able to take in his surroundings. They were on a small plateau that was still very high up in the mountain range. The plateau was basically nothing but a meadow, with tall trees along its edges, and the rest covered in thick, green grass and small shrubs. But there were no trees on the far side of the meadow, which allowed the velpe to look out on the valley below and to the mountain range on the opposite side of the valley.

On one side of the meadow, where the troll was pointing, Geralt could see a cave opening, and then, suddenly, another troll appeared in the cave’s entrance. It was about the same size as the one in front of him, but he could easily tell that it was female as it was nursing an infant troll on one of its enormous breasts. Geralt quickly took his eyes off the scene and returned them to the male troll in front of him. It spoke again, pointed again at the cave, and then began walking in that direction.

Geralt watched the troll walk away and furrowed his brow. What the hell was going on? Did the troll just invite him to his home? Brother Adelbert’s bestiary had never mentioned anything like this. The entry indicated that trolls were sentient, but that they were also very aggressive, dangerous, and had no qualms about eating humans. He wasn’t sure what to do. He glanced to the far side of the meadow, which was clearly the only way off the plateau, and then back to the cave. Finally, he nodded his head, making up his mind. If the troll had wanted to kill him, he would have tried already.

The velpe got up and stood on his left leg. He tentatively put his right foot onto the ground, and intense pain shot through his leg above his ankle. There was no way that the leg could bear any weight, and he cursed himself for having run off into the mountains without any health potions. He was now just hoping that his bones weren’t poking through his skin, and he decided to keep his boot on and laced up tight. How in the world was he going to get back to Kaer Morhen? It had to be a dozen or more miles away, on the other side of the far mountain range. As a test, he began to hop on one leg, but he stopped after only two hops. It hurt his ankle to be jarred around so much, but it was bearable. He just didn’t know for how long he could hop before he wore himself out. Well, he decided he’d worry about that later. He could at least hop over to the cave, so that’s what he did.

He got to the cave and saw the male troll sitting down outside of it, plucking the feathers off of a harpy. One of the harpies had already been completely plucked while the other two corpses were on the ground waiting their turn. The troll looked up from what he was doing and spoke to Geralt in his gibberish language. 

Geralt shook his head. “I still can’t understand you.”

The troll scratched his head and spoke again, this time pointing first to his mouth and then to his stomach. At that point, Geralt thought that he now understood what the troll was asking, but he just didn’t know how to answer. It looked like the troll family would be having harpy for dinner, but did he really want to partake? He thought back to his bestiary about harpies. Like almost all post-Conjunction creatures, harpies potentially carried a variety of diseases that could easily kill a human. However, Geralt wasn’t fully human anymore, and he knew he was supposed to be immune to all diseases. Plus, he figured if he cooked the meat, then it should kill off any parasites or germs. To be honest, he didn’t particularly want to eat any harpy, but, for some reason, he thought it would insult the troll if he said no. And considering that the troll had probably just saved his life, that was the last thing he wanted to do. So, he gave the troll a nod of his head. At that, the troll picked up one of the un-plucked harpies, tossed it at Geralt, and spoke again. Geralt was pretty sure he knew what the troll wanted and began removing the feathers from the beast.

A half an hour later, Geralt was inside the cave eating harpy with the troll family. When he’d first entered their home, he’d had to pause for a moment for the air was quite pungent. He realized then that the trolls probably never bathed. There was also a small crisis when he used Igni to cook his dinner. When the flames shot from his hand, both of the trolls roared out, with the mother troll grabbing her infant and the father troll stepping in between Geralt and his family. Fortunately, Geralt was able to calm them down, and after that, the trolls could not get enough of the Igni Sign. They kept prompting him to cast the Sign, and then they’d “ooh” and “ahh” and talk excitedly. Or, at least, that’s what Geralt thought they were doing.

While they were eating, Geralt discreetly looked around the cave. It was small, and he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary on first glance. There were no beds, no pallets, no furniture of any kind. Though, he did see an assortment of colorful, picked flowers scattered about a back corner of the cave. He furrowed his brow slightly at the sight.

Once they had finished their dinner, the male began talking to Geralt – once again, using hand signals and pantomimes to help. It amazed Geralt that – even though they were completely different species – they seemed to be able to communicate using rudimentary body language. 

The male pointed to his chest and garbled a short word. He then pointed to Geralt. Then, he repeated the process. Geralt nodded his head in understanding. The velpe pointed to his chest and said, “Geralt.” He then pointed to the troll. 

The troll nodded and for the third time said the short word, but Geralt didn’t know if he could even come close to pronouncing what he was hearing. 

“Bogor?” he asked.

The troll’s face changed, he nodded his head, and pointed to himself.

“Booogoooor.”

Geralt smiled. 

“Okay. Bogor,” he said pointing to the troll. He pointed to himself again. “Geralt.”

“Geeeeraaaalll”

The teenager smiled even wider.

“That’s close enough.”

A few minutes later, Geralt learned the names of Bogor’s family. His wife was Ganda, and his son was Mook. And then, Bogor said another short word. He pointed to himself, Ganda, and Mook, and then he said the word as he looked around and pointed at the cave. He then pointed at Geralt and shrugged his shoulders, lifting his hands in the air. This went on several times until Geralt finally figured it out. Bogor was asking him about home.

The teen nodded his head and grabbed a small, left-over bone from dinner off the floor of the cave. With one hand he wiped the dirt floor smooth, and then he sketched a drawing of Kaer Morhen with its high walls, front gate, and large castle. When he was done, Bogor and Ganda stood behind Geralt and looked at the drawing in the dirt. Suddenly, Bogor began talking quickly. He clapped his hands, pointed at the drawing, and then to his head. Geralt looked at the troll and saw that his face had changed again. Bogor looked just like he had when Geralt had said his name correctly. And, then, the velpe realized what the change in the troll’s face meant. He was smiling.

oOo

“Damn it,” Geralt cursed under his breath. He couldn’t believe his luck.

For the past several hours, Geralt had been riding atop Bogor’s broad shoulders as the troll carried him from his mountaintop home back to Kaer Morhen. They were now about a quarter-mile away from the front gates, and Geralt was just about to tell Bogor to put him down. He didn’t want the troll anywhere near Kaer Morhen, and so he was just going to hop – or crawl - the last part of the journey.

If there was one person for sure that Geralt didn’t want to see at the moment it was Kalen. But there the son-of-a-bitch was off in the distance. The velpe had no idea why the witcher would be outside of the fortress in the late afternoon, but then again, he had no clue what the bastard did when he wasn’t tormenting the fodder.

“Bogor,” said Geralt urgently, and he pointed to the ground. Bogor stopped walking, reached up, and easily lifted Geralt off his shoulder. He put him on the ground gently and looked down at the velpe.

“You need to go now,” he said, pointing back towards the mountain.

Bogor said something unintelligible but still didn’t move.

“Home, Bogor!” exclaimed Geralt, pointing emphatically now. “Please, go home. Home.”

That was one of the new words that Geralt knew that the troll understood.

“Hooooommmmee.”

“That’s right. I’ll come visit, I promise. But you gotta go, now,” he said, and then he looked back over his shoulder in Kalen’s direction. The scarred witcher seemed to heading their way. So, Geralt put his hands on Bogor’s chest and began to push him.

“Please go home, Bogor. Please.”

Eventually, the troll must have understood because he said Geralt’s name, and then turned around and lumbered away. Geralt watched him go, silently urging him to hurry before Kalen made it further down the dirt road. Eventually, he saw the troll disappear into the tree line, and he let out a huge breath. He turned around to see Kalen standing in the middle of the road, about fifty yards away, looking in his direction.

Geralt knew that he’d left the keep almost twenty-four hours ago, and he wondered if the cadre were out searching for him. Maybe that’s why Kalen was out. 

_‘Whatever,’_ he thought to himself. _‘I don’t give a damn.’_

And then he began hopping up the road towards the front gate. As he approached Kalen, the master witcher spoke.

“Having problems, Piss Boy?”

Geralt stopped and looked at his former instructor. He saw Kalen’s eye glance at the tree line where Bogor had disappeared and then back to Geralt.

“Run into some trouble, did ya?”

“Nothing a potion won’t fix…Master Kalen.”

The witcher laughed. 

“All scratched up…can’t even walk. Looks like you’re not ready for the Path at all, Piss Boy. Guess it’s a good thing you got ‘blackballed.’”

Geralt clenched his fists, anger suddenly coursing through him.

“You’re one to talk…Master Kalen. How’s life with one eye?”

The hideous smile on the witcher’s face suddenly vanished.

“You think you can take me, Piss Boy. I’ll make you beg for mercy…just like your little retard friend. What was his name – Eugene?”

Geralt could feel his entire body shaking as he glared into Kalen’s eye. The two stood there taking each other’s measure for several moments until, eventually, the teen turned and walked away. The pain in his ankle was so intense that he was having to grit his teeth, but he’d be damned if he was going to hop or crawl in front of that whoreson.

“Smart move, Piss Boy, walking away from me. That must be the only smart thing you’ve ever done in your life.”

Geralt didn’t bother to look back as the witcher’s cruel laugh carried up the road behind him.

oOo

“So, do you like it?” asked Geralt, showing a small wooden trinket to Bogor.

Bogor scratched his head.

“Whaaat iiisss?” the troll asked, pointing to the trinket.

For the past several months, Geralt had spent all of his free time in one of two places – at the stables working with Roach or up in the mountains with Bogor and his family. While all of the extra training that he’d done at night for the past six years hadn’t been a waste of time, he figured that there was no point in it, anymore. None of it was going to help him get his medallion when Kalen could just ‘blackball’ him again. So, instead, from that point on, he was just going to spend his free time doing things that made him happy. And being with Roach and visiting Bogor made him happy.

On Geralt’s second visit to the trolls’ cave, Bogor came out with a bag made of some kind of animal hide. The velpe hadn’t even known the trolls could sew. But what he saw next blew him away even more. Bogor withdrew numerous, intricate wooden carvings from the bag. It turned out that the giant troll was an artist – an actual wood sculptor. Geralt closely examined the little, wooden figurines to see that they included a flower, a deer, a bear, a tree, and other objects one would find in nature. Many years ago, Bogor had found a small knife in the woods and then had starting using it to create gifts for Ganda. Or, at least, that’s what Geralt thought the story was. Even though he’d taught Bogor dozens of words in Common, their communication was still pretty basic. 

But what wasn’t basic was Bogor’s work-working skills. The level of detail was incredible, and what amazed Geralt even more was that the knife he used and the figurines that he crafted were so small. How could the giant troll, with such large hands, create such tiny works of art? Geralt didn’t know. But what he did know was that one of his new favorite past times was sitting with Bogor, whittling on pieces of wood.

“It’s a fish,” said Geralt.

He’d made a pendant just like the one that Milka had made for Eugene – the one around his neck.

“Fiiiiisssshh?” asked Bogor, scratching his head.

Geralt nodded.

“Fish,” he repeated, and he made a swimming motion with his hand.

Bogor shook his head and continued to scratch it, which Geralt knew meant that he didn’t understand. So, Geralt smoothed out the dirt between them, sketched out a simple looking river with rapids, and then drew a fish in it. The two of them had discovered that – in addition to the pantomimes - Bogor learned best when Geralt drew pictures. In fact, Geralt couldn’t believe just how many words the troll had learned in the past few months. Bogor wasn’t just sentient, Geralt thought. He was actually really smart.

“River…fish…you eat it,” said Geralt, pointing to the water, the fish, and then to his mouth.

Bogor smiled and clapped.

“Fiiissssh,” he said, nodding his head. “Goooood.”

“You like it?”

“Booggoor liiike.”

Then, he put his hand out.

“Fooorrr yooouuu.”

Geralt looked at the figurine in Bogor’s hand and knew immediately what it was. He shook his head, once again amazed at the troll’s talent.

“Troooolllll.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt smiling. “It’s beautiful.”

“Mooook.”

“This is Mook? Your son?”

Bogor nodded

“Sssooon.”

“I love it, Bogor. Thank you.”

“Welccooomme…Gerrraalt.”

A little while later, Ganda came out with her son, and, as was their new custom, they gathered some fire wood and had Geralt light it with his Igni Sign. All these months later, Mook would still clap and gurgle every time he saw Geralt perform one of his Signs – but especially when he saw the velpe use the Igni Sign. What amused the teen was that he couldn’t figure out if Mook’s gurgling and grunts actually meant anything. It could have just been ‘baby talk,’ but to his ears it sounded no different than when Bogor and Ganda spoke.

Then, they’d sit around the camp fire and share a meal – whatever Bogor had caught that day. Though, on two occasions, Geralt had provided dinner himself – both times when a bear had attacked him while on his way to the cave. Geralt always cooked his meat over the fire, but the trolls preferred their dinner raw. To each his own, thought Geralt. He still wasn’t a huge fan of harpy meat, which seemed to be a delicacy for the trolls.

After dinner, they’d stay around the campfire. Geralt would try to teach them some new words in Common, but most of the time they just watched Mook toddle around. He was a cheery kid, who laughed a lot and made everyone else laugh, too. And he absolutely loved crawling all over Geralt. Though he was only about a year old and about three feet tall, he already weighed more than Geralt and possessed incredible strength. Luckily, Geralt had superhuman strength himself. So, though Mook never hurt him, he knew that it wouldn’t be long until he could no longer wrestle with the young troll.

But, that night, Mook didn’t wrestle with Geralt. He played with his dad. Bogor tossed his son high in the air over and over, while Mook laughed and Ganda clapped and talked. Geralt didn’t know what she was saying, but the gentle tone in her voice was unmistakable. He stared at the family on the other side of the fire, and he suddenly felt an emptiness in his chest. But even though there was a deep, painful longing inside of him, he also wore a smile on his face. He realized that he was sad over what he was missing while at the very same time happy with what he had. He didn’t think that it should have been possible to feel those two diametrically opposed emotions at the same time, but he was. But the longer he watched the family, the more that the longing grew until, finally, the only thing he felt was sadness. So, eventually, he stood up, bid his troll family a goodnight, and walked back to Kaer Morhen in the cool, autumn darkness.

oOo

Geralt was in the corral, putting Roach through some exercises. He had her moving at a trot around the fence line while wearing a small saddle. Her front leg was improving – getting stronger everyday - but he knew that it would always be slightly deformed and weaker than the rest.

He suddenly caught something out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see black smoke high in the air, starting to rise up behind the keep. He immediately stopped what he was doing but didn’t let go of the rope connected to her halter. Eventually, he brought his attention back to his horse and walked over to her.

“Let’s hope he makes it, girl,” he said as he rubbed her along her nose.

It was that time of the year when the fodder were put through the Trial of Grasses so he knew what the smoke meant. After almost a dozen years at the keep, he knew very well. The first boy had died and was being cremated – only after being stripped, of course. And then his clothes would be washed and added to the clothes closet in the barracks, sorted according to size.

The ‘he’ that Geralt was referring to was the little, brown-haired boy who’d come down to the stables about six months back, right after Geralt had broken Yastic’s arm. The kid had taken Geralt up on his invitation and had visited the stables multiple times a week after that. Geralt had wanted to keep his distance from the kid, and he certainly didn’t want to know any intimate details about the kid’s life. He figured that the boy could help him work Roach and that they could keep the conversation confined to horses. And, at first, that’s what they did. But, over time, the boy kept bringing up stories from his childhood – talking about his family and friends back home. He’d ask Geralt about life at Kaer Morhen – what he could expect in his training and what he could expect if he survived the Trial of Grasses. He’d even asked Geralt about the Trials, themselves, but Geralt wouldn’t tell him anything.

“It’s best if you don’t know, kid,” he’d said.

And the next thing he knew, despite his initial intentions, Geralt found himself actually looking forward to the kid’s visits. 

Geralt patted Roach on the neck a few more times and said, “All we can do is wait now, girl. All we can do is wait.”

Over the next month, Geralt tried his best to keep his mind off of the kid, but it didn’t really matter what he was doing – going through training with the cadre, working Roach, or visiting Bogor – he kept wondering if the kid had survived.

“Never again,” he said to himself, as he knelt on his platform late one night. “Hopefully, I’ll be on the Path come next summer…but between now and then, no more fodder in my life.”

He was about to clear his mind and get in an hour of meditation when he heard a noise near the front door of the barn. He opened his eyes just in time to see a young boy run in.

“Geralt! I made it! I made it! Can I come up?”

Geralt looked down through the rafters at the little, brown-haired boy and a big smile came to his face. 

“Yeah, kid, come on up.”

A few seconds later, the kid was at the top of the rope, stepping onto the platform.

“Can you believe, Geralt? I survived.”

Geralt shook his head.

“I honestly can’t. Fate…well, fate’s never been that good to me. As soon as you came into my life, I figured you were a goner.”

Suddenly, the smile left the boy’s face.

“You were right not to tell me…about the Trials, I mean. If I’d have known what it was going to be like, I probably would’ve run away. Even getting eaten in the mountains by some bear couldn’t be worse than that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And you know what this means now, right?”

“No clue.”

“I can tell you my name.”

Geralt nodded and let a small smile come to his face. He extended his right hand out.

“I’m Geralt.”

“I’m Eskel,” said the young velpe, shaking his hand.

“Really?”

The boy nodded.

“Why?”

“You look more like a ‘Dougie’ to me. I wouldn’t have guessed ‘Eskel’ in a thousand tries.”

Eskel smiled.

“Yeah, cause ‘Geralt’ is such a common name.”

The two velpen stayed up most of the night, telling stories and bonding in a way that only two people who have gone through the same hell could ever do. Memories of his time as a fodder – memories that he didn’t think that he could ever find pleasant or amusing - suddenly became funny when sharing them with Eskel. Eventually, though, the young velpe tired out and fell asleep right there on Geralt’s pallet. Geralt didn’t mind though. He thought that maybe the two of them could start bunking together – just like he and Eugene had – until he headed off onto the Path. He figured that he could ask Eskel about it in the morning, and then he closed his eyes and began to meditate.

A few hours later, Geralt opened his eyes when he heard noises coming from outside the barn. Based on the illumination in the sky, he figured it was still an hour before sunrise. So, just who the hell would be out there at this time of the morning? Eskel was the only person who would visit him. Certainly, none of the other velpen did. He wasn’t really friendly with any of them. He listened closely and realized that there were voices of multiple people, but the voices were low and he couldn’t recognize them. Maybe it was a couple of witchers coming in off the Path now that it was nearing the winter season. A few of them had arrived in the past week. But, if it was witchers, then why weren’t they bringing their horses into the stables? Well, he needed to get up anyway, he thought. The morning’s physical training would start soon. So, he turned and shook Eskel awake.

“Got a present for you, Piss Boy!” suddenly came a loud voice from outside.

Geralt instantly recognized the voice. He paused for just a moment – wondering what Kalen could want - and then quickly strapped his swords on his back and repelled down the rope. Eskel repelled down right after him. As Geralt was approaching the front door of the barn, he smelled something unpleasant, and he instinctively reached for his sword. He walked out of the barn, into the cold morning air, and immediately noticed Master Kalen walking away from the barn. It looked like he had three velpen with him. They were looking back in his direction and laughing.

“Hope you enjoy it, Piss Boy!” yelled Kalen over his shoulder.

“Is that…what I think it is?” asked Eskel.

Geralt glanced at Eskel, who was staring at the ground. The teen lowered his eyes and his heart stopped. At his feet was the decapitated head of a cave troll. A troll that looked just like Ganda.

oOo

_Day 4 – Dothan; February 1194_

“What do you mean he’s not here?” asked Geralt.

“He hasn’t shown up yet,” answered Sergeant Breen, the highest-ranking officer at the Dothan estate.

The witcher was confused.

“Yet? I thought Sir Alyn was the one who led you out here.”

Breen shook his head.

“No. A few hours ago, a parchment was delivered to me, ordering me to round up a company of the royal guards - including those from the bridge - bring them here, and then await further orders.”

“So, you didn’t actually speak with him?” 

Suddenly, Breen started to look uncomfortable.

“Well, no, but the crest on the wax seal was his. There’s no doubt.”

_‘This isn’t right,’_ thought the witcher. _‘I don’t know what the hell is going on, but this isn’t right.’_

“Sergeant Breen, I think we should all head back to the palace right now.”

“Witcher, you can do want you want, but I’ve got my orders. We’re staying here.”

“Breen, you don’t find this odd? We’re all out here instead of guarding the palace, and Birke’s nowhere to be found.”

“Yes, I do, but it doesn’t matter what I think. I’ve got my orders, and I have to follow them.”

“Holy damn, man. Is that what’s required to be in the guard? You have to shut your brain off?”

Breen’s narrowed his eyes.

“It’s called discipline and duty, witcher. So, I’m not shocked that you don’t understand.”

Geralt just shook his head, and then turned and ran towards the stables. He untied his saddlebags from the horse that he’d just ridden to the estate, found a fresh mount, and attached the saddlebags onto its saddle. He didn’t know whose horse he was borrowing, and he didn’t care. He just hoped it was rested and fast. He snapped the reins and kicked its flanks, and the horse kicked up dust in the moonlight as he galloped out of the estate and back towards the city.

As fast as the horse was racing, so were the teen’s thoughts. Was Sir Alyn somehow involved in the killings? There was no way, thought the witcher. First, what was his motive? And, secondly, the man didn’t need a monster to kill the royal family. He had direct access to all of them. Unless, he was just using the monster as an alibi. But, then, how would the man even control a monster? He was no mage. Or was he? And then, the teen reminded himself, it had been the captain who’d told Geralt that there were no other sorcerers at the palace besides Rojet. Maybe, there was another magic-user and he’d simply lied about it. Maybe Birke and this other mystery mage were in league together.

But no matter how many scenarios the witcher played out in his mind, he just couldn’t see Sir Alyn betraying the royal family. Through his investigations and conversations, the witcher had learned that Birke had been a member of the royal guard for twenty-five years and the captain of the guards for over ten. So, maybe, whoever was behind the killings had somehow gotten to him. Maybe Birke hadn’t shown up to the estate because he was actually in trouble. Geralt gave a slight nod of us head because that made a lot more sense to the teen. And with that thought, he snapped the horse’s reins and urged it to go faster.

Geralt pushed his mount as hard as he dared, but, even so, it took an hour for him to make it back to the palace. He dismounted at the side gate, and the two guards manning the entrance let him in. Once inside, he paused and took stock of his surroundings. All was quiet. There were two more guards at the back door of the palace itself, but he didn’t see any others patrolling the grounds as usual. He figured they were all out at the country estate with their thumbs up their butts. He looked towards the gardens and let his eyes roam back and forth, but he didn’t see any lurking shadows. 

_‘Okay,’_ he thought. _‘I need to find Sir Alyn.’_

The first place he thought to look was the Captain’s quarters, which were in the smaller building attached to the main palace by a covered walkway. Geralt was just turning to head that way when he caught some movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up toward the palace but didn’t notice anything. And then, he saw it move. Something human-shaped was climbing the outer wall of the palace. It was dark and had blended into the dark, brown stones. That’s why he hadn’t seen it at first, but he could see it now. It was moving slowly, and it was heading toward a fifth-floor balcony. The witcher knew that there was only one person that lived on the top floor of the palace – King Travid.

“Monster!” he yelled out and immediately took off at a sprint.

The two guards at the back door of the palace instantly came to attention, and Geralt yelled at them as he ran their way.

“Open the door! Now!”

One of the guards was too stunned to move, but the other obeyed the witcher’s order and opened the door right before the teen sped through it. He sprinted down the hall towards the main staircase, and while he ran, he reached down into the satchel on his hip, and pulled out a handful of potions. He had marked the outside of the metal vials beforehand, so he found the two he wanted and tossed the others back into the bag. He slid around a corner on the smooth marble floor of the main foyer and paused for just a second as he downed the potions. He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when the intense pain hit him, causing him to grit his teeth, bend over and put a hand on the staircase. A few seconds later, the worst of the pain passed, and he snapped his eyes upward. He immediately started his sprint again, now even faster than before, for his muscles twitched with power.

“Monster on the fifth floor! Save the king!” he yelled as he ran, his shouts echoing off of the palace’s stone walls.

Given that it had to be close to midnight, he knew that he was probably waking all the residents of the palace, but he just didn’t care. He may not have respected or liked Travid, but he had to save him. For he’d given his word – not only to the king but also to his young son, Nigel.

As he reached the fifth-floor landing, he pulled his sword and rushed down the hallway towards the king’s bedchambers. There were two guards at the doors with weapons already drawn.

“Halt!’ one of them shouted while brandishing his sword.

“Save the king! The monster’s in there!” Geralt shouted as he continued running down the hall.

“There’s no monster, witcher! It’s been quiet as a mouse up here!”

Suddenly, they could all hear a crash coming from inside of the king’s bedchamber. It sounded like the balcony doors had broken open. A moment later, there was a scream.

The witcher didn’t even bother to argue any longer. As he approached the two guards, he thrust his left hand forward and blasted the two men out of his way and down the hall with a powerful Aard Sign. They landed fifteen feet away and slid another fifteen before coming to a stop. He then turned towards the king’s door and kicked it near the handle. There was a loud crack as the wood splintered, and the double-doors swung open.

Geralt rushed into the bedchamber but quickly slid to a stop. There was not a single lit torch, candle, or lantern inside the king’s room. And while there was a bit of illumination coming in through the open balcony doors and from the hallway behind him, the bedchamber was still bathed mostly in darkness. The pupils of the witcher’s cat-like eyes dilated, and then he cursed inwardly – for he saw that he was too late. A monster, at least eight feet tall, stood next to the king’s bed, swiping downward with ferocious claws. It was slashing Travid’s body to pieces, and the king had to be dead because he wasn’t making a sound. 

Geralt clenched his jaws, immediately cast a Quen Sign, and slowly walked toward the monster with his sword held in the defensive position in front of him. Despite his enhanced night-vision, he was still unable to get a clear view of the monster. Its face was down and in the shadows. But, then, suddenly, it stopped mauling the king’s corpse and looked up. Its eyes fastened onto the witcher, but it made no noise. It didn’t howl or hiss or growl. It just stared at the witcher in complete silence.

In all his years studying his bestiary, the witcher had never read of any monster quite like the one before him now. It appeared to be of human origin and looked like a cross between a werewolf and a drowner. It was tall and broad, with bulging muscles. Like a lycanthrope, its feet and hands were elongated and ended in sharp claws. However, unlike a werewolf, it was not covered in fur. Nor did it have the face of a wolf. It actually had the face of a man, except that its features looked mutated and grotesque. The witcher saw a ray of light reflect in its eyes and knew that it, too, must have night-vision. The monster bared its teeth at Geralt, and he easily noticed that its canines were long and sharp, but it still made no noise. 

About that time, Geralt heard footsteps behind him, and a second later, the two guards entered the room.

“Stay back!” yelled the witcher, not taking his eyes off of the monster. The last thing he wanted was the creature heading into the palace and massacring dozens of more people.

The beast moved away from the bed and into the middle of the room, the entire time staring the witcher down. Geralt stepped towards it and, immediately, swung his blade, but the monster leapt high into the air, avoiding the strike. The beast turned its body in the air so that its hands and feet came into contact with the room’s ceiling, and then it instantly sprang forward towards the witcher. Geralt rolled but was knocked off balance and heard a loud pop as the creature’s claws smashed through his Quen shield. 

The teen scrambled to his feet and saw the beast speeding right towards him. He swung his blade again, but again, the monster ducked, and as it flew past, it raked a claw across the witcher’s chest. The sharp claws sliced right through his gambeson and shirt and tore into his muscles.

Geralt knew he had been wounded, but at that point, with elixirs pulsating through his veins, the pain didn’t register. What did register for the teen was this beast’s incredible speed. He’d never faced anything this fast before. Not knowing what else to do, he snatched a Moon Dust bomb off his belt and slung it at the beast. The monster saw the explosive coming and swatted it in mid-air. The bomb exploded, and splinters of silver exploded everywhere, and, instantly, the beast howled out in pain. 

_‘The silver,’_ the witcher thought. _‘Silver must hurt it.’_

Suddenly, the monster turned and ran towards the balcony. A split second later, Geralt was right behind it, but he couldn’t catch it. The beast was out the door and over the balcony’s railing in a flash. Geralt skidded to a halt at the railing and looked downward to see the monster descending down the side of the palace. With its incredible strength, it was jabbing the claws of its hands and feet into the stones or the mortar between the stones. And it was moving fast. 

Geralt had to make a decision. If he took the stairs down, he’d lose sight of the monster, and it might be gone by the time he made to the ground floor. But there was no way that the witcher could scale down the side of the palace wall like the monster was doing. He quickly turned his head to the right and saw a fourth-floor balcony about thirty feet away. The teen nodded his head, sheathed his sword, backed up to the far side of the balcony, and took off at a sprint. He leapt up onto the railing and immediately launched his body into the air. His eyes widened as he realized he wasn’t going to make it. He extended his arms out as far as he could, and a moment later, he slammed into the balcony’s railing and held on for dear life. He quickly climbed over the railing onto the balcony and looked down, scanning the side of the palace for the monster. It was already past the third floor.

“Damn it,” he cursed. He was going to lose the beast.

He moved to the other side of the balcony and saw another balcony, this one on the third floor, also thirty feet away. 

“Screw that,” he growled. He wasn’t going to try that again. 

He turned and kicked open the balcony doors. He rushed through the darkened room, into the fourth-floor hallway and towards the stairs. He ran down the stairs as fast as he could, and a minute later, he came out the back doors of the palace. He looked at the palace wall, but the monster was no longer there so he hurried over to where he thought the beast must have landed on the ground. 

About that time, a handful of guards cautiously approached him.

“Stay back! All of you!” he commanded. “There may be tracks – so stay away.”

All the guards immediately stopped.

Geralt bent down and inspected the ground closely, but he didn’t see anything. He turned his back to the palace wall and began to slowly walk away from it, his eyes scanning back and forth with each small step that he took. Then, something caught his eye.

_‘There!’_ he said to himself.

Twenty feet away from the palace wall was a spot of blood. A few feet away he saw another. The king’s blood – and maybe even some of his own - must have been dripping from the monster’s claws. He nodded his head as a sneer came to his face. It was a bloody trail. Now, this was what he’d been trained for. He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder to the guards.

“You lot can’t help with this. In fact, you’ll just get in my way. So, go back inside. Protect Prince Roope and Prince Nigel.”

And without waiting for an answer, he started following the trail of blood into the palace gardens. 

As he walked, he unsheathed his silver sword. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he was dealing with, but since the silver fragments from the Moon Dust bombed had seemed to hurt it, then he was going with the silver blade and not the steel. He quickly paused and looked into the satchel at his waist. He found the small, metal container that he wanted, popped the top, and then poured a viscous, golden liquid onto the blade – hoping that the cursed oil would do the trick. It worked on lycanthropes, so maybe it would work on this mystery monster, as well. He smeared the oil along the flat sides of the blade with his hand. Satisfied with that, he recommenced his search. And as the witcher moved, so did his eyes – both rapidly and constantly - from surveying his surroundings to down towards the ground, tracking the trail of blood. He was running as fast as he thought was safe, but what he didn’t want to do was run so fast that he lost the trail or, worse, came across an ambush. He couldn’t be sure that the monster wasn’t waiting up head somewhere, ready to pounce. 

Geralt looked up, and that’s when he suddenly stopped. Fifty feet ahead was the outer wall of the palace grounds, and it looked like the trail of blood was heading straight for it. He sprinted ahead, and once he got close, he saw a smudge of blood about ten feet up on the wall. 

“It’s outside the palace.”

The teen immediately sprinted for the nearest gate, cranked the wheel to open it, and headed through. As he ran back towards the area of the wall where he thought the monster must have come down, he noticed that he was on the south side of the palace, near the Yaruga River. He moved quickly along the perimeter and suddenly stopped upon seeing strange tracks. They were deep in the soft soil and looked like they came from the monster. He trailed the tracks with his eyes, saw that they led towards the river, and then he hurried that way. 

The Yaruga was less than a hundred yards away, with no villagers’ huts or cabins in the area. The land was damp and grassy and sloped down toward the river’s edge. Geralt followed the monster’s tracks, and then they began to veer to the left just past a small orchard of trees. And that’s when he noticed that they were heading towards the massive Anisberg bridge. He looked up and his eyes widened. He could see the monster off in the distance, moving fast towards the bridge, and he immediately took off at a sprint.

In his four days in the city, the witcher had never actually stepped foot on the bridge, and now that he was getting close to it, he was amazed by its size. The bottom of the bridge was well over a hundred feet above the surface of the water, and the towers that ran along the top of the bridge must have been another two hundred feet above that. They were easily higher than the tallest spire of the royal palace. 

The witcher shook his head when he spotted the monster climbing up the bridge’s foundation. There was no way he could accomplish that, so he turned and hurried up the steep slope. Suddenly, he saw a set of wooden stairs ahead and he began climbing them as fast as he could. A few moments later, he came to the top of the stairs and ran onto the bridge. 

“What the hell is it doing?” he whispered.

The monster was now on the outside of one the bridge’s towers. It looked to be slowly climbing towards the top. 

Geralt rushed towards the tower and then underneath the arch. On the interior of the tower was a wooden door. It was locked, but the witcher opened it easily with a blast of Aard. He moved inside the tower and saw a series of stairs leading all the way to the top. He didn’t know why the monster was heading that way, but he thought that he could beat it there. 

A minute later, the teen came to the top of the stair case. On the interior wall of the tower was a secured ladder, which lead to a wooden trap door. He signed a Quen and rushed up the ladder, threw open the trap door, and climbed onto the roof of the tower. He quickly scanned the roof and saw that he was alone so he rushed over to the ledge, but he skidded to a halt when, halfway there, a set of sharp claws appeared over the edge. A split second later, the monster pulled itself up and stood up straight, and Geralt immediately blinked his eyes at what he saw. 

There was not a cloud in the sky, and with the full moon shining down, the witcher could see the beast as clearly as if it was the middle of a sunny day. The monster had changed slightly since he’d faced it in King Travid’s bedroom. The silver from the Moon Dust bomb must have somehow affected it, for it wasn’t as tall or muscular. Its skin wasn’t as dark, and its facial features weren’t as grotesque. The monster was glaring at Geralt, but it made no noise.

And that’s when the teen recognized him.

“Sir…Sir Alyn?” he stammered.

A moment later, the look of menace on the monster’s face disappeared, and Geralt swore that he then saw an awareness or recognition come to the beast’s eyes. 

“Sir Alyn, it’s me…Geralt.”

Again, Geralt saw something register on the monster’s face.

“Geeerrraalllt,’ the monster hissed slowly.

Geralt nodded.

“That’s right, Sir Alyn. We’re friends. Me and you…we’re friends, Sir Alyn.”

He slowly lowered his sword to his side.

“Sir Alyn, I don’t know exactly what kind it is…but I’m pretty sure you’re under a curse. But I’m a witcher, Sir Alyn. I can help you. Let’s just not…kill each, okay?”

“Wiiiittchheeerr,” he hissed again.

“Yes, Sir Alyn. I’m a witcher. Let me help you.”

The teen nodded again. He was trying to say the knight’s name as many times as possible, hoping that he could reach that part of the monster’s mind where Sir Alyn’s psyche was hidden. 

“Kiilllllll meeeeee.”

The teen furrowed his brow and slightly shook his head. It sounded as if the monster was pleading.

“Sir Alyn, I’m not going to kill you. We don’t have to fight. Let me try to break the curse, Sir Alyn.”

“Kiilllllll meeee,” it said again.

Geralt clenched his jaws, shook his head, and he slowly sheathed his sword. The teen noticed that the monster’s eyes tracked the silver sword all the way into the scabbard.

“Nooooooo,” it hissed.

“No, Sir Alyn,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not going to kill you. There’s been too much death already.”

The witcher then saw something pass behind the monster’s eyes. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was sadness.

“Deeeeaaattth,” the monster hissed and slightly nodded its head.

And then the creature turned around, putting its back to the witcher. Geralt furrowed his brow.

_‘What the hell is he doing?’_

“Deeeeaaattth,” it said again, and then it suddenly leapt forward into the air.

“Nooo!” Geralt yelled as he ran towards the edge of the tower.

He looked down and saw the creature falling through the air, but it made no noise. It didn’t yell or scream. Only the sound of a gentle breeze was in the witcher’s ears. Several seconds later, the monster hit the water’s surface with a loud crack, and an instant later, the body disappeared into the cold, dark river. The teen scanned left and right and down river, but he never saw the monster emerge. Two minutes passed, and there was still no sign of Sir Alyn. The only thing visible on the river’s black surface was the reflection of the full moon above. 


	14. Chapter 14

_Kaer Morhen - 1193_

Geralt ran as fast as he could until every muscle in his body was screaming out in agony, and then he pushed past the pain and kept running upward into the mountains. With every step, the fear that he felt inside continued to build, and that fear drove him to run even faster. Swirling through the teen’s mind was both the absolute trepidation of what might lay ahead and also numerous unanswered questions. How had Kalen even found Bogor? More importantly, how had the despicable witcher even known that he and the cave troll had become friends? Sure, Kalen may have seen the ‘monster’ carrying the white-haired teenager back to Kaer Morhen that day several months past, but that was the only time that the two of them had ever been seen together. Geralt had always taken precaution when visiting Bogor to ensure that he wasn’t followed. Or, at least, he thought he had. Now, he was no longer so sure. 

By the time Geralt scrambled up the steep slope to the small plateau where Bogor and his family lived, he was breathing heavily and covered with sweat. He climbed onto the flat ground and took a single step toward the cave when he knew, immediately, that something was wrong. A horrible stench was in the air – an odor that was much more pungent than the cave’s normal scent. He stopped right where he was and just stared at the darkened entrance to Bogor’s home, and, suddenly, he felt like he had a thousand-pound weight on his chest. The entire way from Kaer Morhen he had been trying to convince himself that it wasn’t Ganda’s head that he’d seen back at the stables. That it was just some sick joke on Kalen’s part. That he was just being his typical cruel self. Or, maybe it was a different adult troll. They all looked alike, right? But now he knew, and his naïve hope vanished in an instant.

Even if Geralt’s nose hadn’t warned him of what was ahead, his ears would have clued him in. He couldn’t hear the deep, guttural gibberish that the trolls made when talking. He couldn’t hear the higher pitched tones of Ganda and Mook’s laughter that would routinely echo out of the cave. But what he could hear were the faint yips and growls coming from some other types of beasts, which caused him to immediately unsheathe his sword.

The teenager was just about to charge toward the cave to see what was inside, but a voice inside of his head stopped him.

_‘An unprepared witcher is a dead witcher,’_ he could hear Master Vesemir say.

But his fear for his friends won out, and he started running toward the cave anyway. He had no time to prepare, he thought. He didn’t have any potions or oils on him, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to take the time to hunt down the proper ingredients in order to craft them. Bogor or Mook could still actually be alive inside the cave, and if so, they needed his help immediately.

So, Geralt sprinted across the small meadow but paused for just a moment at the cave’s entrance, glancing down at the flat, dirt ground. Mixed in with the trolls’ large footprints were other much smaller and very differently-shaped tracks. Lots of boot-prints – ones that were clearly not his – were visible, and he also saw the spoor of what he thought were either ghouls or alghouls. He raised his eyes to the cave and nodded his head, knowing that he would soon find out if he was correct. He quickly scanned back through his mind, trying to remember every fact he could about the necrophages, and after reminding himself of their strengths and weaknesses, he took a big breath and strode into the cave.

Upon entering the trolls’ home, Geralt’s pupils immediately dilated, and he saw just what he’d feared. But the teenager was moving before his brain had even registered his emotions. He hopped forward and drove his sword right through the spine of the nearest ghoul as it feasted on the intestines of one of the trolls. The monster roared out in pain and fell to the floor of the cave, but before it had even breathed its last, Geralt had already withdrawn his blade and was moving fast towards the other two necrophages. The first ghoul’s cry had alerted his fellow monsters, and they were now facing the teen, blood dripping from their snarling mouths. 

Geralt glanced at both monsters, and just as he recognized that the necrophage on his right was actually an alghoul, it let loose with a piercing scream. The spines on the top of its head and back immediately elongated, and the horrendous scream both stirred the ghoul on his left into a frenzy and also slightly stunned the teenager. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and spun away just as the ghoul launched itself at him. He felt a claw rake against the back of his gambeson, and as he came out of his pirouette, he noticed the alghoul was now in the air, claws and jaws extended in his direction. The monster-slayer immediately side-stepped the monster’s attack, and as it was flying past him, he quickly swung his sword down in a powerful, two-handed strike, bisecting the creature’s back. The blade cut halfway through the alghoul’s body, and it fell to the cavern floor with a thud. He brought his sword up in front of him in a defensive position and looked up to see the remaining ghoul walking slowly towards him. As it got closer, it emitted a hideous scream and crouched low, as if preparing to lunge.

Though he hadn’t taken any witcher potions, to Geralt, it seemed as if he was moving twice as fast as usual. His eyes picked up the ghoul’s back legs bending slightly, the monster’s muscles contracting as it prepared its next attack. The beast let loose with one more howl and leapt toward the velpe, and Geralt leapt, as well. The ghoul and the teen met in mid-air, and Geralt thrust his sword straight into the monster’s still open maw. The blade pierced its spinal cord and exited out of the back of the monster’s neck, killing it instantly. The ghoul’s corpse spun and then fell to the cavern floor, and because he was still hanging onto his sword, Geralt’s was momentarily knocked off balance. However, with his cat-like reflexes he righted himself and was able to land on his feet.

Geralt swiftly withdrew the blade and hopped backwards into a crouched position. He looked around the cave for just a moment, and another voice in his head told him that he should decapitate all the necrophages. But he shook his head. He didn’t have time for that. He had to check on his friends.

“Bogor!” he yelled as he rushed toward the closest troll lying on the cavern floor, and he dropped to his knees at his friend’s side.

If there had still been any hope inside of him – any hope that his friend had somehow survived - it was completely dashed by what he saw. The troll’s body was covered in blood, and his lifeless eyes were open – just staring into the void. The softer, more vulnerable skin of his belly was torn open, his innards pulled out and gnawed upon. The teen turned his head away from the body in front of him. He couldn’t bear to see Bogor in that condition. A few seconds later, though, he clenched his jaws and turned back to face the corpse, his face expressionless and his breathing becoming very slow as he stared at what was left of his friend. Something inside of him told him that he needed to remember this image – to sear it into his memory.

Geralt peered down at the scene in a clinical fashion, and he tried to recall everything that he’d been taught over the years regarding forensics and autopsies – for he wanted to determine just what damage had been done to Bogor by Kalen’s hands versus what had been done by the necrophages. But, then, his eyes drifted to his left, towards the troll’s right arm that was splayed straight out to his side. His giant hand was facing palm up, and as Geralt stared at it, he suddenly remembered how gentle that hand had been. He recalled the first day they’d met, when Bogor had lifted the teen onto his shoulder, wrapped that big hand around his thighs, and carried him back to Kaer Morhen. He remembered those hands tossing his young son into the air as they all laughed. He recalled those hands carrying a bouquet of colorful, wild flowers that he’d picked for Ganda. And he could picture those hands working with skill on his beautiful wooden figurines. Without even realizing why he was doing it, Geralt leaned over and grasped Bogor’s hand with his own, their two palms touching. The troll’s hand was deathly cold, and it was then that the teen’s mask of stoicism cracked.

“I’m sorry, Bogor. I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “It’s my fault.”

He shook his head several times and dropped his chin to his chest.

“It’s all my fault,” he said as he gripped his friend’s hand as tightly as he could. “You should’ve never helped me. You should’ve just let me die up here. Everyone I’ve ever cared about ends up dead…because of me.”

The teen stayed right there, kneeling next to his friend for the longest time, but eventually, he raised his head and scanned the other parts of the trolls’ home. He stopped when his eyes landed on Ganda’s corpse – her headless corpse. She was lying towards the back of the cave, and Mook was between her and the back wall. Obviously, the mother troll had stationed herself in front of her son, trying – but failing - to protect him. Geralt imagined the terror that she must have felt as she fought to save her son’s life and the hopelessness that must have overwhelmed her knowing that, as she was dying, her son would be next.

It was then that a sob suddenly and unexpectedly escaped from the teenager’s throat. He brought his hand up to his mouth and clenched his jaws tightly, as if that would somehow ward off what he could feel was coming on. And despite an inner voice screaming at him to look elsewhere, he continued to stare at the mother and son until the pain finally became too much to bear. As the grief washed over him, he lowered his head and closed his eyes, and for the first time in years – since before the Trial of Grasses - Geralt cried. No tears fell down his cheeks – for the mutations had destroyed that ability - but his shoulders shook as he mourned for his troll friends…mourned for Eugene…mourned for his own mother…and mourned for himself.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

oOo

Hours later, Geralt had the three trolls lined up next to one another on the floor of the cave. Despite his mutated strength, he’d had some difficulty in moving Bogor so instead he’d pulled Ganda and Mook’s corpses next to his. He had piled dozens of small, dead tree limbs and handfuls of dry leaves both on and around their bodies. The teen had even picked some wild flowers and placed them on top of Ganda. He remembered that she’d loved them so. Lastly, he’d placed all of Bogor’s wooden trinkets on the troll’s chest. He’d found the animal-skin bag in a corner of the cave. It had been ripped open, all of the contents spilled onto the ground. And it looked as if someone had stomped all over the figurines, shattering them into pieces.

Geralt looked at each body one more time and whispered, “I’m sorry. You deserved better.”

He then cast an Igni flame towards the make-shift pyre, setting the leaves and kindling ablaze. 

The teenager had decided to cremate their bodies, and at first, he didn’t even know why. He certainly hadn’t chosen to do it out of any religious motivations – for he still, ever since Eugene’s death, didn’t believe in the existence of a god. Or, at least, he didn’t believe in the existence of any god that he cared to worship. Because what kind of god would allow little boys to be taken from their families and put through the torture of Kaer Morhen? What kind of god would allow innocent kids to be subjected to the Trials – where they ended up either dead or, perhaps even worse, mutated into witchers? What kind of god would allow the senseless slaughter of Bogor and his family? No, thought Geralt, if God did exist, then he was uncaring at best and sadistic at worst. 

The teen finally realized that he’d burned their bodies to leave them with at least a shred of dignity. He didn’t want their corpses desecrated and ravaged anymore by any other mountain scavengers. That was the least he could do for them.

He stared at his friends for just a moment longer, and then he turned and exited their home as it began to fill with smoke. As he walked out the cave, he glanced up at a cloudless, late morning sky, and then he continued to walk to the other side of the clearing, right to the edge of the precipitous slope. He looked in the direction of Kaer Morhen, and though he couldn’t see the giant keep hidden behind a far-off mountain range, he could clearly envision a certain scarred witcher who was there and, probably, anticipating his return. He could picture with clarity a smiling, laughing Kalen earlier that morning, and it was at that moment that the intense grief he was experiencing seemed to lessen just the tiniest bit. So, he began to focus on the one-eyed witcher, and the more that he thought about the scarred bastard, the more his hatred grew, and the more his hatred grew, the less pain he felt – and that was something he welcomed. So, he let his hatred build until all of his thoughts eventually left his friends back in the cave and were focused solely on Kalen’s ugly face. With a single nod of his head, he took a step off of the flat ground and began his descent down the steep slope – his mind set firmly on what lay ahead.

oOo

Geralt stood at the door of the barracks, and he could hear cruel laughter coming from within. He knew that’s where Kalen would be. A few, new fodder had arrived in the past week, and the littlest kids - the most defenseless – seemed to be the one-eyed witcher’s favorite target of torture. 

_‘Well, his favorite target after me,’_ he thought to himself. 

The teenager was just about to reach for the door when he noticed that his heart was pounding in his chest. It was beating so strongly that he could feel it in his ears. Then, he became aware that his breathing was much faster than normal, as well. He realized he was afraid.

He exhaled deeply and shook his head. Did he really think that he could actually take on and defeat Kalen – a fully-qualified witcher with decades more experience? For over six years, the one-eyed whoreson had instilled nothing but fear and hatred into him. And, though he was no longer a tiny, weak fodder, he hated to admit that some of that fear still remained.

In addition, he fully realized that if the two of them fought, one of them could very easily wind up dead. Was he truly willing to go down that path again? Was he truly prepared to take another person’s life? Because he still remembered Reisel. All these years later and the memory of the boy’s bloody corpse and lifeless eyes would still come to him unbidden in the quiet of the night. And no matter how many times he’d told himself that the death had been justified – that he’d only done it in self-defense - he could still recall the devastating guilt he’d felt afterwards. So, was he prepared to potentially experience those emotions once again?

The teenager lowered his head and closed his eyes, and immediately a vision entered his mind – a vision of the tortured and mutilated bodies of Bogor, Ganda and Mook back in their home. Prior to cremating them, he’d finally gotten around to inspecting their corpses, and, in addition to the damage that had been caused by the necrophages, he’d found dozens and dozens of sword wounds. It appeared to the teen that his friends had been tortured prior to their deaths. Remembering the scene, he clenched his jaws and his fists as tightly has he could. Several seconds later, he opened his eyes and gave a resolute nod of his head. While he didn’t truly want to take another life, he knew for sure that he couldn’t just let the trolls’ death go by without something being done - for his friends’ deaths demanded justice. He knew that he had to confront Kalen, or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He nodded again and then pushed open the door of the barracks. 

Geralt walked in and saw a crowd at the far end of the room. Everyone’s back was to the white-haired teenager, and though he couldn’t see Kalen, he could easily detect his cruel voice. He also heard the whimper of some young boy followed by laughter from many others. He noticed Eskel was standing a pace or two behind the crowd with his arms folded across his chest. He was looking on but didn’t seem to be amused by what he was seeing.

Eventually, a velpe turned and his eyes went wide upon seeing the white-haired teenager standing alone, staring at the group. He immediately turned back around and said something to the person in front of him. A few seconds later, the noise of the group stopped, and Geralt saw Kalen’s head rise high above the rest. The one-eyed witcher turned around, and upon seeing Geralt, a small, hideous smile came to his face. The velpen automatically parted as he walked a few steps in Geralt’s direction. 

“Why?” Geralt asked. “Why’d you kill them?”

A look of contempt came to Kalen’s face.

“Just how big a pussy are you? We kill monsters, Piss Boy. We don’t make friends with ‘em.”

The teen slightly shook his head.

“They weren’t monsters,” the teen responded. “They were kind…and gentle. Not a threat to anyone.”

Then, his faced turned hard.

“Besides, ‘No coin, no killing.’ Does that sound familiar to you, asshole?”

A collective intake of breath could be heard throughout the barracks.

Kalen sneered and shook his head.

“You’re pathetic. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you. You’ve been a complete waste of our time and training,” he snarled. “I’ve told Vesemir and the rest over and over that you’ll never have what it takes to handle the Path.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at the scarred witcher.

“I knew it was you. _Knew_ you were the one stone-walling me – keeping me from my medallion.”

Kalen laughed.

“If you think that, then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought. You actually think I give a _shit_ about whether or not you die on the Path. I kept you alive as a fodder so you could face the Trials. That’s my only job. Personally, I want your pansy-ass out of here.”

A look of confusion flashed across the teen’s face, and he shook his head slightly.

“Fine, whatever,” Geralt replied, before his face once again turned hard as stone. “Me and you outside.”

Kalen laughed again.

“Be careful what you ask for, Piss Boy.”

“No swords. No Signs. No decoctions. Just our fists. Unless you’re scared.”

Kalen’s smile returned. 

“Splendid idea.”

Geralt gave a quick nod of his head and exited the barracks. He walked across the stone courtyard and unbuckled his scabbards from his back. He leaned the swords against the wall, and when he turned around, he saw Kalen also removing his swords and handing them to one of the velpen. The big witcher then turned and faced Geralt. Even though the teen had finally grown and was just shy of six feet, he was still a good four to five inches shorter than Kalen.

_‘You can do this,’_ he said to himself as he exhaled deeply. _‘For Bogor and Ganda and Mook.’_

The two slowly walked towards one another when, only a pace away, Kalen suddenly threw a roundhouse right at the teenager. Geralt immediately ducked underneath it, punched the big man in the gut with his right and, as he was coming out of his crouch, connected with the taller man’s cheek with his left. He then quickly skipped backwards, out of reach.

Kalen turned and looked at the white-haired teen with a snarl on his face.

“Enjoy that, Piss Boy,” he said as he approached. “Won’t happen again.”

The one-eyed witcher swung a huge fist at Geralt, and again, the velpe evaded the blow and landed three counter-punches of his own. After Geralt hopped out of reach again, Kalen lifted a hand and touched his nose. He glared at the teen after seeing that the velpe had drawn blood. 

On the third attempt, Kalen tried to change up his approach. He feigned a punch and then leapt at the teen, trying to get him into a bear-hug, but Geralt was too fast. He ducked and spun away and quickly counter-attacked – hitting the big man with two more punches. And with every blow that landed, the teenager’s confidence grew, and his righteous fury blazed. He wanted Kalen to hurt for what he’d done to Bogor and his family. For what he done to Eugene all those years ago.

The cat-and-mouse game continued, but no matter what he tried, the bigger witcher couldn’t even touch the teenager. Geralt’s agility and reflexes were so exceptional that Kalen looked like he was moving under water. Two minutes after the fight had started, Kalen’s face was a bloody mess. Eventually, in a frenzy, he yelled and rushed towards Geralt, but the teen once more quickly evaded, and as the big man flew past, the white-haired youth twisted his body and connected with a powerful punch right on Kalen’s jaw. The scarred witcher’s head snapped to the side, and he fell hard to the ground.

Geralt stood several paces behind the downed witcher, his breathing just a little faster than normal. He quickly glanced at the crowd of fodder and velpen standing near the front door of the barracks. None were saying a word, but when he made eye-contact with Eskel, he saw a small grin on his face, and the younger velpe gave a slight nod of his head.

The white-haired teen then looked back down towards the prostrate witcher.

“Is that all you got?” he growled out. “Because if I’m a worthless pussy, then what does that make you?”

Kalen didn’t answer. He just slowly raised up onto one knee and then reached up with his left hand and began massaging his jaw. He stayed in that position for several long seconds, and Geralt’s eyes shifted back to the crowd. They all appeared to be in shock. Still no one was saying anything – just staring at the display. Suddenly, the teen saw Kalen standing so he turned his full attention back to the witcher in front of him. Kalen turned around to face Geralt, but his head was still down and he appeared to still be massaging his jaw. Just as the scarred witcher was raising his head, about to meet Geralt’s eyes, he quickly threw his right arm forward. Geralt obviously noticed the movement, but with six feet in between him and his combatant, he didn’t immediately register any danger – until he saw Kalen’s hand twisted into the shape of the Aard Sign. But by then it was too late.

The telekinetic blast slammed into Geralt’s chest and propelled him through the air.

_‘But that’s not fair,’_ flashed through the teenager’s mind a split second before his back and head smashed against the outer, stone wall. He instantly fell face-first toward the ground, but his hands and arms braced his fall, sparing further damage. Now down on his hands and knees, he reached one hand up to feel the back of his head. While he could still hear sounds around him, his vision was filled with flashes of white light.

Just as Geralt was about to raise himself up onto one knee, he suddenly felt a kick to his ribs, knocking him onto his back. He looked up, and though his vision was filled with stars, he could see Kalen’s snarling face right above him. He also noticed that Kalen’s fist was raised, and an instant later, Geralt felt like he’d been kicked in the face by a horse, and the back of his head bounced off the stone ground, causing more stars to fill his vision. He quickly raised his arms in front of him to protect his face, but Kalen’s punches continued to find their way through, smashing the teen’s nose and lips. In the middle of getting his face pummeled, the teen had no time to formulate a plan, but then his instincts and years of training took over. He desperately signed an Aard at Kalen’s chest, and the big man flew off of Geralt’s body and backwards several yards.

With a groan, Geralt slowly rolled over and turned his head, hoping to locate his tormenter, but he couldn’t see much. His left eye was already swollen shut, and his right eye was still full of stars. He staggered to his feet and blinked his eye repeatedly, trying to get his vision to return. He was bent over with one hand on his knee when he heard a low growl. He looked up to see Kalen about six feet away - charging right at him with a metal brazier in his hands. Without even thinking, the teen signed a Quen a split second before Kalen swung the large, metal object. The Quen shield exploded with a loud bang, knocking the brazier out of Kalen’s hands and propelling the scarred witcher backwards several feet. And though the Quen shield absorbed all the damage of Kalen’s attack, Geralt, in his weakened state, also fell backward onto the ground.

The teen immediately realized that he was now in a fight for his life, and he scrambled over to his swords. He grabbed the scabbard of his steel sword in his left hand and was just about to unsheathe the blade when he felt a pair of strong hands grasp his. He jerked his head up to see Vesemir standing right next to him.

“No, Geralt,” the gray-haired witcher said, holding on tightly to the hilt of the sword in one hand and the scabbard in the other. “No. You can barely even stand.”

Geralt immediately shifted his eyes past Vesemir to see that several other cadre members had arrived and were standing between himself and Kalen. The one-eyed witcher was looking his way and smiling at him.

“Anytime you want another lesson, Piss Boy, you know where to find me,” Kalen yelled out from behind Vesemir.

“We agreed on no Signs,” Geralt growled back. “You couldn’t even lay a hand on me without cheating. Remember that, asshole.”

“Ah, is the little boy gonna cry to his momma?”

Geralt just stared at Kalen and tried to control his breathing.

“This isn’t over,” he finally said. “I promise you.”

“Anytime, Piss Boy.”

Kalen then cocked his head to the side and looked at Geralt. Then, he laughed.

“You know, you’re about as pretty as me, now,” he said before turning away and strolling slowly towards the keep.

Geralt glared at the witcher’s back as he walked away and could still hear his cruel laughter even after he was no longer in sight.

The teenager then looked at the old witcher.

“You can let go of my sword now,” he said through clenched jaws.

Vesemir released his grip and took a slow step backwards, never taking his eyes off of the bleeding teen. Geralt immediately strapped his swords to his back and, without saying another word, he walked off in the opposite direction. He strode purposefully to the stables and went directly to the storage room. He grabbed a blanket, an old saddle and a set of saddle bags and went straight to Roach’s stall. He put the blanket and saddle on the back of his horse, and then, with the saddle bags over his shoulder, he climbed the rope up to his platform. He grabbed his bedroll and looked down at the rest of his meager possessions – an old, tattered copy of Brother Adelbert’s bestiary; a hand-held stone for sharpening his swords; a small, alchemy box containing various plants and herbs; an extra pair of well-worn boots, and the wooden figurine of Mook. He shook his head, realizing that he was looking at everything he owned in the entire world. He glanced quickly at the book and a sneer came to his face. He left it in place but picked up the rest of his belongings and placed them inside the saddle bags.

He went back outside and was connecting the saddle bags to his saddle when he heard steps coming in his direction and looked up to see Vesemir walking his way. He quickly finished securing the saddle bags in place and grabbed Roach’s reins in his hand. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The teenager looked into the master witcher’s face.

“Anywhere but here.”

“I know you’ve just taken some blows to the head,” said Vesemir, “so you may not be thinking straight right now, but you haven’t received permission to leave Kaer Morhen yet.”

Geralt glared into his mentor’s face.

“Nobody ever asked me if I wanted to come here,” he growled. “So, I don’t give a _damn_ if I’ve got permission or not. If you think you can stop me, go right ahead. But you’ll have to kill me. Otherwise, I’m leaving this shithole.”

Vesemir sighed.

“Geralt, listen to me - you’re not ready,” said the old witcher. “You don’t even have your medallion.”

A look of disbelief crossed Geralt’s face. He almost laughed.

“You actually think that I’m leaving so that I can go off to be a bloody _witcher_? You’re out of your damn mind.”

Vesemir furrowed his brow but for just a second. He then nodded his head and sighed.

“You really do hate us, don’t you?”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just stared into his eyes.

“We’re hard on you for a reason, you know?”

At that, it was Geralt’s turn to furrow his brows.

“I don’t hate you because you’re hard on us,” he said, as if stating the obvious. “I’m not a fool. I know you all think you’re preparing us for the Path. I hate you because you _enjoy_ it. You _enjoy_ making us suffer. You’re nothing but a bunch of bloody sadists, and that makes you worse than _any_ monster that’s out there.”

Vesemir shook his head.

“I’ve never enjoyed hurting others.”

“Well, maybe not you. But you _know_ what goes on here, and you’ve let it happen…which makes you just as culpable.”

Vesemir slowly nodded his head. 

“You’re right, Geralt. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should’ve done more to stop the more extreme measures that take place here. But I’m not perfect. None of us are. We are _all_ incredibly flawed men, but that doesn’t mean that we’re wrong about what’s out there.”

He said the last while pointing a finger towards the front gate.

“You may hate Kalen, but remember – he’s been out there. I’ve been out there. And it’s _just_ as ugly out there as it is in here, I promise you,” he said, nodding his head. “Geralt, I still remember the first time I ever spoke to you…right here in these stables. You were a tiny kid, and you were swinging a stick around, pretending to be a knight. I look at you now, a decade later, and – on the inside - you haven’t changed. You’re still that same little boy, wanting to be a knight. Trust me, Geralt, the world you’re heading into…it is no fairytale. I know you want it to be, but…it is no place for a tender heart or sentimental dreams.”

Geralt didn’t immediately respond. He just continued to stare at his teacher, and then his right eye widened just slightly. He slowly shook his head as the truth dawned on him.

“Son of a bitch,” he said through clenched jaws. “It was you, wasn’t it? I am such an idiot. I thought it was Kalen, but…I should’ve known all along. _You’re_ the one that blackballed me from the Trial of the Medallion…didn’t you?”

The old man stared right back into his eyes, sighed, and then nodded his head.

“Geralt, we’ve talked about this. You’re more skilled than anyone I’ve ever trained. But physical skills aren’t enough to survive,” he stated in a low voice. “You’re too trusting. You think too highly of the people that are out there. You think they’re actually gonna like you and respect you.”

He shook his head.

“That’ll never happen, son…and it’s gonna get you killed. And that would…”

But he didn’t finish his thought as he broke his gaze away. He just sighed again and then looked back up at Geralt.

The teen glared at his mentor.

“Well, congratulations. Lesson’s learned. I’ll never trust anyone ever again,” he said coldly. “And I’m not your son.”

He took a step forward, toward the front gates, but the old man snatched his hand out quickly and grabbed Roach’s bridle, making them both stop.

“Wait, Geralt!” Vesemir said. “Just wait, damn it!”

“What?” asked the teen, staring at his mentor, exasperation clear in his voice. “What do you want now?”

The old witcher removed the witcher medallion from around his neck.

“Here, take this,” he said, holding the wolf-head towards the teen.

Geralt furrowed his brow and shook his head.

“I don’t want that,” he said with disgust on his face. “I told you – I will _never_ be a witcher.”

“I know what you said,” growled out the old man. “And I don’t care. Just take the damn thing, will you?”

Then his face softened.

“For me…okay?” he said after a sigh. “You never know…you just might need it one day.”

Geralt stared at the old witcher for several long seconds. Finally, he nodded his head and held out his hand. After Vesemir placed the medallion in his palm, the teen put it in his trousers’ pocket. He then looked back at the grey-haired witcher.

“Is that it?” the teen asked harshly. “Can I go now, or do you have some more pearls of wisdom you wanna bestow?”

The two stared into each other’s eyes.

“Geralt, I…” Vesemir started but didn’t finish.

Geralt saw the old man clench his jaws and then swallow.

“I wish you well,” he finally said.

When the master witcher didn’t say anything else, Geralt strode toward the keep’s front gates with Roach following behind him. He made sure to never look back.

oOo

_Day 5 – Dothan, February 1194_

The early morning light was just starting to peak around the edges of the closed drapes, and Geralt was lying in his bed with his eyes wide open. They’d been open all night. The teenager had so many thoughts and emotions running through his mind. He breathed in deeply, and a small smile crossed his lips as he smelled the strong scent of lilac. He turned his gaze just a fraction to his right and saw Delyla’s strawberry-blond hair and her naked shoulder right next to him, poking out from under the covers. He wasn’t sure what he felt about the woman – didn’t know how to label it – but he thought that he had to be in love. He’d never had such strong feelings towards anyone in his life – not Marmalade, not Eugene, not Bogor, not Roach, and not even his mother. Well, okay, maybe his mother, but what he felt for Delyla was a _very_ different type of feeling.

After the monster that was Sir Alyn leapt to his death from the top of the bridge, Geralt had spent an hour searching the river’s banks for his corpse but to no avail. Eventually, he’d trudged back to the palace – a palace in absolute chaos. He’d found Prince Roope – now King Roope - and informed him of what had taken place, and then he’d found Doctor Dermitt and had him stitch up his wounds. After that, he’d gone straight to his bedchamber. He had needed to be alone with his thoughts, but when he arrived at his door, Delyla was waiting for him. He’d invited her in and told her about Sir Alyn. He was expecting tears and hysterics, but she seemed to go more into shock.

“I knew something was different with him,” she’d said. “I knew it. I even told you. I thought it was just stress…that he was getting sick. I…I never would have guessed.”

They talked a few minutes more, and then she’d asked if she could stay with him for the night, for she really didn’t want to be alone. She’d said that she was feeling so vulnerable. And that was how he’d lost his virginity. He’d had absolutely no clue what to do. Well, he knew the basics – what part went where, but that’s all he knew. Over the years, he’d overheard some of the witchers talk about women whenever they returned to Kaer Morhen during the winter months, but he’d never listened long, and he’d never asked any questions. But despite his clumsiness, Delyla was incredibly patient and understanding. It made him love her all the more. She was also very encouraging and enthusiastic. By the end of their second time together, he thought that he was starting to get the hang of it. And he really liked it. But it wasn’t just how it made him feel physically. It was how he felt on the inside. He felt – he wasn’t sure how to describe it - ‘content’ was perhaps the word he was looking for. Yeah, that was it – contentment, he thought. He hadn’t felt contentment in over eleven years, but now with Delyla, he did.

After their first time, they’d snuggled and shared some private stories of their lives. He’d told that he was looking for his mother. He told her about the vision that he’d had during the second Trial of Grasses – of seeing Visenna in a beautiful garden, and how it had seemed so real. She told him of her childhood – about her parents dying when she was a young girl and how her older brother, John, raised her until she was a teenager and could make it on her own. Geralt thought that he enjoyed that part – the cuddling and talking – as much as he did the actual sex. Did that make him weird, he wondered. He shrugged because he didn’t know.

The last thing they’d talked about before she fell asleep were the plans for the next day. She told him that she was going to leave both the palace and the city. After everything that had happened in the past two months, there was just no way that she could stay there any longer. She needed to leave and get a fresh start somewhere else. She’d said that, if Geralt wanted, she’d even help him look for his mother. The teenager couldn’t believe it. If he hadn’t been in love with her already, then that would have sealed it. 

But, surprisingly, all of his thoughts and feelings about Delyla were not what was keeping him awake. What he couldn’t stop thinking about were his last moments with Sir Alyn on top of the Anisberg bridge. He couldn’t put his finger on it exactly, but something about the entire affair didn’t sit right with him. There was some piece of the mystery that he still wasn’t seeing. He knew it. He just couldn’t figure out what it was. 

Birke had clearly been cursed. There was no doubt in the witcher’s mind about that. So, then, had the captain lied about Brother Johan’s last words? Had the priest actually issued some sort of curse, after all? But, if so, why would Sir Alyn lie about it? One could argue that he lied about it because he knew he was cursed and didn’t want to be found out, but there was something about the way Sir Alyn had acted on that bridge that made Geralt think that wasn’t the case. If Sir Alyn was so concerned with not being caught, then why did he beg Geralt to kill him? It didn’t make sense. And, in addition to all of that, how was the dark shrine up on the fourth floor involved and who was behind it? There were still so many unanswered questions. 

Geralt thought that, maybe, if he could get some sleep and turn his brain off for a while, then when he woke up, the answer would come to him. But sleep just wouldn’t come. Finally, he gave a small sigh and very slowly got out of bed, careful not to wake Delyla. His clothes – the clothes that he’d worn the previous night – were a bloody, ripped mess so he decided to wear his nice, palace ensemble – the doublet and jerkin. The silk shirt felt gentle against the newly stitched-up wounds on his chest, but he decided to keep the doublet and jerkin unbuttoned and open so that they wouldn’t rub against the stiches. He quietly exited his room and made his way down to the kitchens. Pierre was already up and made him a large breakfast, which he wolfed down. 

After that, Geralt just began walking around the palace and the grounds, letting his feet lead him wherever they wanted to go. Eventually, he realized that he was heading for Sir Alyn’s room. When he got there, he tried the door handle and, surprisingly, found it unlocked. He entered the room and shut the door behind him. He breathed in deeply and could still smell lilac in the air. It wasn’t strong, but it was still present. He began walking around the room, looking for nothing in particular. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. But eventually he started to make a concerted search, just as he’d done in the palace the previous afternoon. He looked under the mattress and then under the bed. He searched through Sir Alyn’s wardrobe and all of his clothes. Fifteen minutes after he’d started, he was on his knees, looking behind a bedside table, when he noticed that one of the stones in the wall wasn’t flush with the rest. He took out his knife and picked at the corner of the stone with the tip, and the stone popped free and fell against the back of the nightstand. Geralt stood up, pulled the small table out of the way, and, when he knelt back down, he could see a book hidden inside of the hole.

The witcher inspected the hole and not sensing anything dangerous, he retrieved the book and took it over to the chair where he’d sat with Sir Alyn a couple of days prior. He opened it to the first page, and a title was handwritten, “The Journal of Sir Alyn Birke, Captain of the Dothan Palace Guard.” Geralt thought that the man’s penmanship – simple, block letters with zero flourish - was just like the man.

The first entry was dated many years back when King Travid was still married to Queen Oleyna. Sir Alyn wrote of how much he respected the queen and how he thought she was a calming influence on her husband. After that, Geralt started quickly skimming through the rest of the entries, gleaning the captain’s insights on various members of the royal family and court. The teen finally stopped on an entry from a little over two years ago – the day after Midinvaerne. He read of Sir Alyn’s thoughts regarding the king’s festival, including the death of Brother Johan. 

“Damn it,” the witcher cursed under his breath when he realized that Sir Alyn hadn’t written down the priest’s last words in the journal.

But the knight had questioned the king’s actions, at least in his own mind if not out loud. He’d written that he felt incredible guilt at killing the priest, even if he had been fulfilling his duty to the king. He wrote that he missed Queen Oleyna.

In a journal entry from a few months later, the captain wrote of meeting a ‘stunning and radiant young chambermaid named Delyla.’ He went on and on about her, and Geralt decided to just skip that part.

Finally, the teen came to the last few entries, starting on the day after Queen Elize’s death. Sir Alyn had noted that he’d had the worst nightmare the night before – he could see a woman’s body below him, torn to shreds and covered in blood. And then later in the morning, when he’d found out about the queen’s death, he was deeply disturbed. Had he somehow dreamt of her murder, he’d wondered.

Then, a month later, the same thing occurred with Princess Camilla. The same night that she’d died he’d had the same horrific nightmare of tearing a young woman’s body to pieces. He could remember that in the nightmare, he’d felt tormented – like he hadn’t wanted to do harm to the woman, but that he’d felt ‘compelled.’ So, instead, he’d simply slashed right through her neck first, killing her instantly. Afterwards, he’d felt rage at what he’d done and began tearing into the dead corpse – clawing her to pieces. When he’d discovered that the Princess had died in that exact same manner, he began to panic. He no longer believed that these dreams were just simple nightmares. He began to think that he was cursed, and that, somehow, maybe he actually was the monster. However, despite his feelings and fears, there was no evidence. Both mornings after the two attacks, he’d woken up in his bed with Delyla, and he’d been totally clean – free of blood. She’d assured him that he’d been with her all night.

Sir Alyn had realized that the two murders had occurred on the full moon, and with each passing day, as the next full moon got closer, he wrote that he felt like he was losing his mind, losing his soul. He couldn’t sleep, and when he did, the nightmares were horrific. He wondered if this was all because of Brother Johan. He couldn’t think of any other reason that he could be cursed. 

‘Is this punishment from the gods for what we did to that innocent priest?’ he’d written.

So, Sir Alyn’s plan was, on the next full moon, to have Delyla lock him in one of the dungeon cells, and if it turned out that he was cursed, if it turned out that he was the killer, then he would do his duty and turn himself in. 

‘If I am the monster – if I am responsible for the deaths of Queen Elize and Princess Camilla – then I must be stopped before I harm anyone else. And I must be punished. That is the only just course of action. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.’

_‘Guilt,’_ thought Geralt as he read the knight’s last journal entry.

That explained why Sir Alyn had killed himself by jumping off the bridge’s tower. But the witcher still didn’t know how the captain of the guard had been cursed. What he did know, however, was that the mystery seemed to keep coming back to that Midinvaerne night two years ago and to the death of that Lebiodan priest. Geralt closed the journal, and nodded his head. He needed to go back out to the temple and speak with Brother Kennit again. Maybe he’d missed something yesterday when he’d been out there, or perhaps he just hadn’t asked the right questions. Or, maybe, Brother Kennit knew more than he’d let on. Or, worst case scenario, perhaps Brother Kennit had out-right lied. Was it possible that Lebiodan priests were highly skilled in the arcane? Could it be possible that Brother Kennit was actually the one responsible for the curse? Geralt didn’t know the answer to that, but he did know one thing – he knew where he was going that morning.

oOo

“What’s that?” asked Delyla when he returned to his bedchambers.

“Sir Alyn’s journal.”

Her eyes widened.

“Really? Where did you find it?”

“I couldn’t sleep because…there’s something about this mystery that I’m still missing. So, I went to his room and found it hidden in the wall.”

“I didn’t even know he kept a journal. Did you find anything useful in it?”

“I don’t know…maybe. He suspected that he was cursed. In fact, he wrote that he was going to have you lock him in the dungeons at the next full moon – last night – and see if he changed. Did he mention anything like that to you?”

Delyla furrowed her brows.

“No, never. The last time I spoke with him was a couple of hours before I found you on the fourth floor. And he just told me to give you the message about him and his men going out to the Dothan country estate. He never brought up anything about him being the monster or locking him up, or anything like that.”

Geralt shook his head in frustration.

“What are you thinking?”

“That none of this makes sense, and…that I need to head out to the Lebioda temple again.”

“What? Why?”

“I think the answer is out there.”

“But I thought that we were going to leave today? Start looking for your mother.”

“We are. Just…after I talk to Brother Kennit again.” He then sighed. “Look, Delyla, the king hired me to find the monster before it killed again, and…I failed. I failed miserably. So, I gotta do this.”

She nodded and gave him a small smile.

“Then, how about we make a day of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll come with you, and we can stop somewhere afterwards for a picnic.” She came up close to him and put her arms around him. “Maybe find a secluded meadow and…snuggle for a while.”

A smirk came to the teen’s face.

“That actually sounds fantastic…because I _really_ like snuggling with you.”

Her smile grew wider, and she gave a quick nod of her head.

“Great! Meet me at the stables in an hour. I need to clean up a bit and then head to the kitchens to fill up the picnic basket. And while you’re down there, see if you can borrow one of the palace wagons. It’ll be nice to ride out there right next to you.”

“As you wish, my Lady,” he said with a smile and a bow.

Two hours later, Geralt and Delyla were on the road heading west toward the Lebiodan temple. It was a beautiful, late winter morning and unseasonably warm. The sun was shining brightly and there was only a light breeze on the air. Geralt had the reins in his hands, while Delyla sat next to him, leaning against his shoulder. They had been enjoying each other’s company all morning, and the witcher couldn’t remember when he’d ever felt happier.

In the back of the wagon, there was a blanket and a large picnic basket, and Roach trailed behind, her reins tied to an iron loop on the wagon’s railing.

“Why did you bring your horse?” Delyla asked.

“Well, I haven’t seen Roach in four days. She needs some exercise.”

“Roach? You named your horse after a creepy insect?”

“No, she’s named after…well, she’s named after the fish.”

“Oh, okay, well, that makes total sense then,” she said with a giggle.

“Well, I…I gave her that name so that she won’t forget where she came from…won’t ever forget what she had to go through.”

“Geralt, I know that horses are intelligent, but I’m not sure that they’re that smart.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s just for me, then. So, that I won’t ever forget.”

He then proceeded to tell her the entire story - about Eugene and their friendship, about Milka and the fish pendant, and about Roach being born lame. When he was done, he looked down at her and could see the tears in her eyes. She leaned up and kissed him tenderly.

“You really are a kind soul, aren’t you?”

His face flushed, and he didn’t answer.

“I’m…I’m not sure you’re cut out to be a witcher, Geralt. You’re too…caring.”

He nodded his head.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before, but, for some reason, coming from you, it doesn’t piss me off so much.”

A frown suddenly crossed her face.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For everything that you’d ever had to go through. It just doesn’t seem fair, and…I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well…thanks, but…it’s all in the past.” He looked into her eyes and smiled. “We’ve got brighter days ahead of us.”

She gave him a sad, wistful smile and then reached into her pocket.

“Yeah, and I know what might cheer you up.”

She opened a cloth, and there in her palm was a handful of candied-pecans.

“Hey, hey!” said Geralt with a smile. “My favorites!”

“Here you go,” she said, as she put some of the pecans into his mouth.

He chewed them up slowly, savoring the flavor, and then eventually swallowed them all down. 

“Man, those are great,” he said. “How about some more?”

“No, no, we’ve got a big lunch in store. I don’t won’t you to spoil your appetite.”

“Trust me, Delyla. My appetite is huge, a few pecans…won’t…spoil…”

The witcher blinked his eyes. His head was suddenly feeling foggy, and his vision was going dim.

“Delyla…I don’t…feel so good…”

“It’s okay, Geralt. Here, give me the reins. That’s it. Now, just lean against me. There you go. Just lean against me.”

oOo

Day 7 – Dothan, March 1194

The witcher groaned and blinked his eyes.

“Where am I?” he rasped out.

“At the Lebioda temple,” answered a voice. “Brother Johan’s sister, Delia, dropped you off.”

Geralt slightly shook his head. He thought his ears must be stopped up. That last sentence hadn’t made any sense. He blinked his eyes a couple of more times, and his vision came into focus. He was lying in a bed, and Brother Kennit was sitting in a chair next to him. 

“Here you go,” said the priest, handing the teenager a cup. “Drink this. I imagine you’re thirsty. You’ve been asleep for two days.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Frankly, I’m a bit confused, myself.”

The priest then reached into his robe and pulled out a sealed parchment. 

“Delia asked me to give this to you. She said it would explain everything.”

He placed the parchment on the bedcovers.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” said the priest, standing up and then exiting the small room.

Geralt raised himself up in bed and opened the scroll. Inside, a small, purple-colored gem fell out. On the parchment was written one sentence.

_‘Light the gem with Igni.’_

He picked up the small gem and held it in his palm. He twisted his fingers and concentrated, and then a tiny flame burst forth from his palm and engulfed the gem. An instant later, an illusion appeared right above the stone. It was a miniature Delyla, six-inches tall.

“I know you must hate me, Geralt. And I don’t blame you. I am truly sorry. I am, but I…I needed a head start on you. When you told me that you were coming out to the temple again, I knew that you’d eventually find out my secret, and…I didn’t know…I _don’t_ know how you’ll react. You’ve got such a strong sense of right and wrong…I thought you might end up deciding to turn me in so…I gave you pecans laced with sleeping draught.”

Geralt just furrowed his brow as he watched the illusion. He still didn’t understand what was going on. The small Delyla sighed.

“I guess I’ll just come out and say it. I was behind the killings, Geralt. I’m the one who cursed Birke. I’m the one who cast the spells that sent him to kill Elize, Camilla, and Travid.”

“What?” Geralt couldn’t believe it.

“I won’t go into the details of what it took for me to learn those curses, but…I think…I lost some of myself…some of my soul in the process. It was some of the blackest magic I’ve ever studied, and I hope that I never use it again.

_‘What the hell?’_ he thought. _‘You’re a witch?’_

“And I certainly won’t mention the other detestable things I had to do. I mean, you can’t imagine how much it turned my stomach to sleep with the bastard that killed my own brother. I know that you found my hidden room on the fourth floor…so you probably already have a good idea of the things I had to gather to complete the curses.”

Suddenly, her face turned hard, with a look of resolve.

“But despite how repugnant it was, I’d do it all again. Because my brother – Johan – deserved justice. He was the finest man I ever knew, and those _despicable_ monsters took his life, and they deserved to die. They actually deserved worse than that. I wanted the monster to torture them, but…I don’t know…I guess there was some part of Birke still inside that…fought me, fought the curse, and gave them a clean, quick death instead.”

The Delyla in the illusion gave a small, sad smile.

“I guess that shows that dark magic isn’t my forte. Would you believe that ‘healing’ is actually my specialty? Ironic, huh?” ~~~~

The teen just shook his head. He felt hollow inside. 

“Nobody else was supposed to get hurt, Geralt. I swear. I’m not crazy, I just wanted justice but…how was I supposed to get it? How do you get justice when the people who murdered him are the king and queen – the royal court?” 

He saw the anger on her face.

“My brother would have said that we should leave justice in the hands of the gods, but where were the gods when he was killed? Where was the justice in that?”

She shook her head.

“Anyway, I didn’t want anyone else hurt, and that’s why I came up with the plan to send you and the guards away last night. After Birke killed Travid, my spell was supposed to compel him to kill himself by jumping off the bridge. You just weren’t supposed to be there. You weren’t supposed to come back to the palace so soon. I was so scared when I heard you yelling while running up the stairs last night. I knew that you’d probably face down Birke, and I was so worried for you.

“I also want you to know that you shouldn’t feel guilty about Rojet and Prince Mathias. That was totally my fault. I honestly didn’t know that they were in a relationship - I promise - but I obviously knew Rojet wasn’t involved in the killings. I only put you onto him to throw you off my trail. But I never meant for either of them to die, I swear. So…their deaths are on me, Geralt, okay?”

The witcher clenched his jaws and shook his head.

“I guess, I don’t really have anything left to say…except this. Last night – us – it wasn’t an act for me. I really do care for you. I think you’re so sweet and kind. And I really did want to go with you, to look for your mother, but…I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. And you should know - the garden that you described in your vision about your mother? It sounds like the gardens that are found at the temples of Mother Melitele. I actually spent six months at the one of their sanctuaries studying healing herbs. I don’t know but…maybe that will help you find your mother. I hope you do. Family is important.

“Well, I guess that’s it, Geralt. I suppose all that’s left is to say good-bye. I just…I just don’t want to say it. Just know that…whatever you do in your life, I truly wish you the best. And, if you continue being a witcher, then please be careful on the Path. And, look, I’m not going to ask you to keep all of this a secret if you can’t. If you feel the need to tell Prince Roope and try to track me down, I…well, I won’t hold it against you. I’ll understand. So, take care of yourself, Geralt. Take care.”

Suddenly, the illusion disappeared, and as soon as it did, Geralt heard a crack. As the teenager stared at it, the gem split in two and fell apart in his palm. 

oOo

Geralt walked slowly back to Anisberg with Roach trailing behind him. He was so embarrassed and disgusted with himself that, if his possessions hadn’t still been in the palace, then he probably would have just left the kingdom immediately. As he trudged along the road with his eyes cast down, he thought back over the last five days. He felt so stupid. He could now see that there had been so many signs. She had mentioned that she’d had an older brother who had died – maybe one of the few honest things she’d actually said to him, and Brother Kennit had told him that Johan had a sister who was a witch. She’d also mentioned to him that she’d only arrived at the palace a few months after Brother Johan had been killed. That also should have clued him in. And, he hadn’t known it at the time, but obviously, her receiving a ‘shock’ from him when she first touched him in the bath must have been because she was a sorceress. But the biggest red flag had been Sir Alyn’s journal. 

The knight had written down that, the morning after both attacks in the palace, he’d woken up in bed clean of blood and with Delyla, who had assured him that he’d been in bed with her all night. It was illogical to think that Sir Alyn would have written down a lie in his own private journal. Which could mean only one thing – Delyla had lied to Sir Alyn. It was impossible that Sir Alyn’s monster could have returned to his room – covered in blood – and Delyla would have been oblivious to it all. She had to have known, and the witcher told himself that he should have realized that when he’d first read the journal entries. What had kept him from seeing it then?

As he walked along – the afternoon sun blazing down on him - he continued to admonish himself. The truth was that he should have immediately known something was amiss with Delyla – actually, Delia was her real name according to Brother Kennit – as soon as she had been kind and flirtatious him. Because what beautiful, grown woman could ever have been truly interested in him? He had kept on telling himself that she probably thought he was nothing more than a stupid kid. And he’d been right – he was a stupid, blind, gullible fool.

Geralt had only spoken briefly to Brother Kennit, and he hadn’t offered any information to the priest. He’d only posed a few questions. He’d asked the priest how he had known that Delyla was brother Johan’s sister. The priest informed him that, after Johan’s death, he had taken all of the man’s possessions and put them in storage. Within his personal belongings was a portrait drawing of Delia. The dead priest had kept it in a frame on his bedside table, and it had clearly been done by a talented artist, because it looked just like the woman. When Geralt asked if he could see the drawing, Kennit informed him that Delia had taken all of her brother’s possessions with her. The teen wasn’t surprised. She’d taken Sir Alyn’s journal, as well. 

It was mid-afternoon by the time Geralt made it back to the palace, and he immediately went up to the fourth-floor broom closet. However, it was no longer a broom closet. The illusion was gone, and when he walked into the bedchamber, he saw that the pentagram on the floor had been scrubbed away and that the spell book and various cursed objects had been removed. It looked like Delyla had been thorough, removing all the evidence. At that point, all that was left to do was to speak with King Roope. 

The entire walk back to the city, the teen had debated on what he was going to tell the new monarch about his latest discoveries – about Delyla. A large part of him just wanted to get the rest of his coin and leave immediately – to avoid any further embarrassment. But could he really do that, he wondered? Didn’t he owe it to Roope to tell him the truth about who was actually behind the murders and why they were committed? But, then again, despite his current feelings about Delyla, he couldn’t truly blame her for what she’d done. She’d only wanted justice for her brother’s murder, and that was something he could totally understand. So, what was the right thing to do? What would his mother have told him to do? He honestly didn’t know.

Even as he walked down the hallway to Roope’s study, he still hadn’t made up his mind about what he was going to say to the man. A minute later, he came to doors of the study, but the guards wouldn’t let him enter. One of the guards went inside, and when he came back out just seconds later, he informed Geralt that he’d have to wait in the hall. So, he sat on a bench for over half an hour as he watched other people parading in and out of the king’s study, before, finally, the teen was summoned.

Roope’s desk was once again covered with books and parchments of all shapes and sizes. The king was furiously scribbling out a long missive with his head down when Geralt entered the room. After finishing his thought, he placed his utensil down and looked at the teen.

“I’m surprised you’re still here, witcher. I thought you and your little witch had left the kingdom. What exactly do you need? I’m quite busy – especially with my upcoming coronation.”

Geralt just stared at Roope for several seconds. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“Did you…did you just call her a witch?”

“Well, yes, I did. That’s what she is after all.”

Suddenly, the king’s eyes widened and then a patronizing smile came to his face.

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Geralt was almost speechless.

“I _just_ found it. You knew?”

Roope sighed. “Witcher, as humorous as this conversation is, I don’t have time to enlighten you on everything that you don’t know. So, what is it exactly that you want?”

He asked the last question very slowly, as if to a little child.

“So, you knew who she was all along? Did you know what she was planning?”

“Anyone with an ounce of intelligence and observational skills could have figured out who she was,” stated the king with a look of condescension. “Which, I guess explains why my father didn’t…and you either. And once I knew who she was, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what she was doing here.”

“How? How did you know?”

Suddenly, the king leaned forward in his chair.

“Can you keep a secret, witcher?” he whispered.

Geralt nodded.

Roope then leaned back in his chair and smirked.

“Well, so can I. In fact, I’m apparently the only person in this damned place who actually _can_ keep secrets.”

Geralt shook his head.

“You knew…and you did nothing?”

“Why would I? It was a win-win scenario. She would get her revenge, and the kingdom would finally have the king it deserves.”

“So, it doesn’t bother you at all that your father was killed…or Princess Camilla?”

The king sneered.

“Camilla was a snake and a whore, just like her mother. And Travid…was an adulterous, immoral, drunken fool. He didn’t deserve my mother. After _everything_ that she did for him…when she needed him most, there at the end, he abandoned her. He was off, knocking up that bitch Elize. He was a joke of a father, a worse husband, and an even worse king. He was leading this realm into ruin. So, no, it doesn’t bother me that he’s dead. The world’s better off. In fact, if your little friend was here right now, I’d probably award her a medal for meritorious service to the kingdom. My only real regret is that I lost my mage-advisor. But I’ve already written to Ban Ard. Rojet shouldn’t be that hard to replace.”

Geralt just stood there, looking at the king. He honestly didn’t know what to say. He just wanted to leave. 

“You know what…just…just pay me the rest of the reward so I can go.”

Roope snorted.

“I’m not giving you a damn coin, witcher.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“What? But I…I…”

“You what? What _exactly_ did you do?”

That was a great question, the teen suddenly thought. What exactly had he done? To be honest, he wasn’t sure that he’d done a damn thing – except for killing some innocent men. But what he was sure of was that he needed that coin. And, after everything he’d been put through in the last week, he believed that he deserved it.

“But, your father…we had a deal.”

“Is that right? Well, then you can take it up with him,” said the king with another smirk.

“But, to show you how magnanimous I can be, I’ll let you keep the royal clothes,” said Roope, motioning his hand towards Geralt’s ensemble. “And, now, good day, witcher.”

The king immediately picked up a parchment on the desk and began reading through it. Though the conversation was clearly over, the teen didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at Roope, and the longer he stared, the more he could feel the anger start to boil.

_‘This? This is how royalty acts?’_ he thought to himself. _‘This is the world of kings…and princesses…and ladies-in-waiting…this is the world of knights and maidens?’_

Suddenly, the king glanced up, surprised that Geralt was still standing there.

“What…you’re still here? I thought I made it clear - you’re dismissed, witcher.”

The teen stared at Roope a moment longer and then turned and walked towards the door. As he was exiting the study, he heard the king shouting behind him.

“Rupert, send a rider out to the mines! I want to speak to Vazney at once!”

“Of course, Your Majesty! Right away!”

Geralt passed the king’s chamberlain who was hurrying into the room, and then the teen marched straight to his bedchamber. With every step, he felt his fury grow. A few minutes later he entered his room, and as he was moving towards the bed, he caught his reflection in a full-length mirror that stood in the corner of the room. It stopped him in his tracks. He slowly walked towards the mirror and stopped a few paces away. He stared at himself, dressed in his fancy, palace clothes – the jerkin and doublet, the silk shirt, the nice trousers, and leather shoes. And suddenly a look of disgust crossed the witcher’s face. He dropped his gaze from the mirror and looked down at himself, and it was then that he felt the weight of the silver, wolf-head medallion in his trousers’ pocket. He could sense it in there – whispering to him, mocking him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. As he held it in his hand and stared at it, he could hear it. It was saying, _‘I told you so. I told you so.’_

Suddenly, he began to breathe very heavily, and then with a low growl that turned into a shout, he reared back and hurled the medallion at the mirror. The metal wolf-head shattered the mirrored glass, and dozens of shards crashed down to the stone floor. Clenching his jaws, he ripped the jerkin off his body, and when he looked up, the fireplace on the other side of the room caught his eye. He marched over to it and slung the jacket into it. The doublet, shoes, and trousers quickly followed. He grabbed the front of his silk shirt and ripped it apart, its buttons flying through the air and bouncing off the floor. He glared at the garments for a split second before suddenly signing a continuous stream of Igni fire for a good five seconds. He stood there, with clenched jaws, and watched the clothes burn. In truth, he wanted to burn the entire damn palace down, but the expensive clothes would have to do.

He watched the flames dance for a moment and then turned, found his own ripped and bloody clothes, and got dressed. He quickly rounded up his belongings – especially the miniature, wooden troll – and packed up his saddlebags. He headed towards the door of the bedchamber, but he stopped just as he grabbed the handle. His jaws were still clenched and he was still so angry that his muscles were shaking, but, in spite of that, a calm voice came through the fury.

_‘It’s not yours to leave. He deserves more respect than that.’_

He exhaled deeply through his nose and then turned and headed towards the mirror. He quickly bent down, retrieved the silver medallion, and put it back into his pocket before heading out the door. 

Five minutes later, he had his gear on Roach and led her out of the stables. He walked out of the open palace gates with his horse right behind him, and he made sure to never look back. 


	15. Chapter 15

_Ellander – Late summer 1194_

Geralt stood at the front entrance to the grounds of the Temple of Melitele and looked again through the wrought-iron fence. Inside, there was a stone walkway that snaked its way through some gardens and looked as if ended at a large, multi-story building off in the distance. Five minutes earlier, when he’d told the adept at the gate that he was looking for a red-headed healer named Visenna, the young, priestess-in-training had said that she didn’t know of anyone by that name. It was the answer that the witcher had expected. However, she’d then told him to stay there while she went to confer with Mother Nenneke, leaving Geralt alone with his thoughts.

As he continued to wait for the adept’s return, he stood next to Roach, rubbed her gently along her neck, and let his mind drift back to his activity over the past six months. Since leaving Dothan, he had methodically traveled through many of the kingdoms that were situated between the Pontar and Yaruga Rivers looking for his mother but to no avail. No one had seen her. No one had even heard of her. He had not yet reached the point where he wanted to quit in his search, but he was getting close. He had eventually adopted the motto of, “Hope for the best but expect the worst.” For he was tired of having his expectations shattered every time someone answered his query about his mother in the negative. Therefore, he’d learned to simply keep his expectations as low as possible. No one could ever disappoint him that way. 

The witcher had found a small Melitele temple in Lyria and another in Aedirn. After that, he’d headed back down south through Rivia – finding a third sanctuary there - before crossing the Yaruga and searching through Angren. Still having no luck, he’d decided to head west and continue his search through the kingdoms on the opposite side of the Mahakam mountain range. He’d crisscrossed his way northward through Temeria, and that was how he had ended up in Ellander. The current temple – which was much larger than any of the others that he’d visited - must have been the fourth or fifth one that he’d come across in his travels, and while the previous temples had all possessed beautiful gardens, none of them had been the one that Geralt had seen in his vision, and none of the priestesses at any of those temples had had any idea who Visenna was.

But in the last half year, the teenager hadn’t just dealt only with priestesses in temples. He’d also interacted with hundreds of farmers, peasants, villagers, city-dwellers, and everyone in between. And the more people that he came across, the more disillusioned and colder he became. He quickly learned that how he’d been treated during that very first leshen contract almost a year ago in Aedirn was the norm, not the exception. Not all, but most people simply shunned him – either out of fear or hatred, he wasn’t exactly sure. Well, they shunned him unless they needed him – needed his swords and skills - but when they found out he wasn’t interested in taking on their contract, they cursed him and told him to leave their town. He couldn’t remember the last time that he’d actually spoken with a friendly face. And every day – with every mile that he traveled - the anger that he’d felt when he’d left the Dothan palace seemed to grow deeper and more bitter.

Geralt waited for over a quarter of an hour at the gate and was just about to turn back toward Roach to leave, when he suddenly saw a woman walking his way on the stone path. She was very short, and the loose robe that was lightly cinched with a sash around her waist only partially hid her full figure. The witcher wasn’t sure what it was called, but she wore some kind of religious veil that covered most of head and flowed down to her shoulders but left her face and her dark bangs visible. Her face was stern, but at the same time, not unpleasant to look at. He didn’t know who she was, but he didn’t figure her to be Mother Nenneke. He assumed the chief priestess would be gray-haired and covered with wrinkles, and this woman was neither.

“I was told that you’re looking for Visenna,” the woman said, after stopping in front of him and looking up into his face.

Up close, he could see that she had a smooth, round face framed by brown hair. But it was her piercing green eyes that he noticed most. He felt a small pang in his chest because they reminded him of his mother’s.

He nodded his head to her question.

“And you are?” she asked.

He paused before answering.

“Geralt…her son,” he finally replied.

Normally, he never offered that he was Visenna’s son to the strangers with whom he spoke. And he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d shared that information with this woman, but there was just something about her – maybe the aura she emitted – that made him want to open up to her. Or, maybe it was her eyes.

Upon hearing his answer, a smile creased her stern face, and she said, “She knew that you’d come…eventually.”

Suddenly, the witcher’s heart began to beat a little bit faster. He couldn’t believe it.

“She’s here?”

The smile left her face.

“No…but she was,” she said. “Let’s talk in my office, shall we?”

Without waiting for a response, she unlocked the gate, turned and began walking back toward the temple building at the other end of the path.

Geralt was feeling a flood of emotions inside of him. Finally, after all of this time, he’d met someone who knew his mother, which meant that she had to be alive. But, at the same time, the priestess had said that Visenna was no longer there, and he felt the anger and frustration that always seemed to be right below the surface start to boil just a bit.

The teenager quickly caught up to the priestess, and as they walked through the gardens, he looked down at her profile. He saw nary a wrinkle on her face.

“You’re Mother Nenneke?”

“Please don’t call me that. Just Nenneke will do,” she replied. “But, yes, I’m the chief priestess here.”

Geralt squinted at the woman.

“You look…pretty young to be a chief priestess.” 

The chief priestesses at the other temples had all been much older.

“Why, thank you, Geralt,” she said with a smile. “A woman always likes to hear she looks youthful, and I’m certainly not above such flattery. But you shouldn’t let appearances fool you.”

Immediately, a vision of Delyla flashed through his mind.

“Yeah. I’ll never confuse beauty with purity ever again.”

He furrowed his brows – confused as to why he had shared that information with this stranger, as well.

She peered up at Geralt for a moment and nodded her head.

“That would be wise,” she said. “Just as I’ve learned to never mistake youthfulness with innocence. Only the gods and their angels are holy and pure.”

The witcher slowly looked down at the priestess as they continued to walk along.

“The gods?” he said with a trace of contempt, “Holy and pure?”

“Yes. Don’t you think so?”

“The swords on my back are the only things I worship.”

Nenneke suddenly stopped walking, causing the young witcher to stop as well. She looked up at him with a small frown on her face.

“So, then, you don’t believe?” she asked.

He stared into her eyes.

“Oh, I believe. I definitely believe…that gods…humans…young or old. They all betray,” he said slowly. “So, trust no one…and keep your sword at the ready. Those are the only two truths in this world worth believing in. That’s my religion.”

The teen noticed a slightly curious look on the priestess’ face.

“I’m fully aware of what man is capable of,” she said, “but how have the gods betrayed you? How has Melitele betrayed you?”

“Really?” he asked with a glare. “How have the gods betrayed me? Well, how about this? They tore me from my mother – the only person in this shithole world that actually ever loved me. Then, I was tortured and abused for years. I’ve tasted more pain than you could imagine in even your _worst_ nightmares. Everyone I’ve ever remotely cared about has either been killed or ended betraying me. And to top it all off, I got turned into a mutant-freak – hated and cheated by the very people that I’m supposed to help.”

The teen didn’t understand why he was sharing so much with the woman. The angry words just seemed to be flowing out all on their own. As he paused, he realized that his heart was beating a little faster than normal so he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t deserve any of that,” he continued in a low voice. “So, if gods do exist…they can go bugger themselves for all I care.”

The witcher and priestess stood in front of the door to the temple, just staring at one another for several moments. Finally, Nenneke spoke.

“You’re right, Geralt. You didn’t deserve any of that. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through it.”

“Oh, you’re sorry?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow up. “Well, why didn’t you say so? That makes it all better then.”

A small grimace came to her face.

“I’ve obviously touched on a raw nerve,” she said calmly. “I apologize. How about we drop the subject?”

He looked at her and slowly nodded his head so she gave him a small, sad smile.

“My office is just ahead,” she said before opening the door and heading down a wide hallway.

Less than a minute later, they reached her office door, which she quickly opened. After they entered, she sat behind her desk while she directed Geralt to sit opposite her.

“Just so you know, I may not look it, but I’m probably twice your age,” she said, restarting the conversation. “Though, I wasn’t much older than you must be now when your mother first showed up at our temple all those years ago.”

The witcher leaned forward slightly in his chair upon the mention of his mother.

“So, you knew her?”

Nenneke nodded.

“As chance would have it, I was the one who greeted Visenna at the gates and escorted her to Mother Jurica. She was near death – bloody and injured. But mostly heart-broken.”

Geralt was now leaning forward completely, his hands on his knees.

“What…what happened?” he asked, but he was almost positive that he already knew the answer. 

It was the nightmare that had haunted his childhood. Even now, he could still close his eyes and picture his mother just as he’d last seen her – on her back, with a torn and bloody dress, and tears running down her face. And him struggling against the foul-smelling witcher and crying out for his “Mama.”

“She was on her way to bring you here when you two were attacked by some monsters” said the priestess, interrupting the vision playing in his mind. “She said that she did her best to protect you, but in her weakened state, she stood little chance. However, a witcher arrived just in time to kill the beasts.”

Geralt slowly nodded his head at the memory of that night.

“Afterward, he demanded payment for his services,” Nenneke continued.

The witcher clenched his jaws and exhaled slowly.

“And she gave him me,” he whispered before his eyes slid away from hers, staring at nothing.

Suddenly, he furrowed his brow and looked up at the priestess.

“Wait – you said that she was bringing me here. Why?”

A frown crossed Nenneke’s face.

“Your mother was very sick, Geralt,” she said. “In fact, she was dying. She was bringing you here…to leave you with us.”

Instantly, all the air rushed out of his lungs at once, and his eyes fell away from Nenneke’s. They drifted down to the desk in front of him, but he was no longer seeing anything. He was lost in the whirl of thoughts and emotions inside of him. He lowered his head and closed his eyes as a deep emptiness filled his chest. He suddenly found it difficult to even take in a normal-sized breath. It felt like his heart and lungs were in a vice-grip.

_“She’s dead. Your mother’s dead…and you’re all alone,”_ he thought to himself. _“You are all alone.”_

Geralt had felt alone for almost as long as he could remember, and the rational part of him had always recognized the likelihood that he would always be alone. However, despite that acceptance, he’d kept a spark of hope inside of him – the hope that his mother was still alive; the hope that one day he would find her; that he would one day feel her warm embrace again. But now…

Eventually, he looked up and said, “Is she buried here? Can I see her gravesite?”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

Nenneke didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked deeply into his eyes, and then her stern face softened.

“Geralt, I…” she said before pausing and sighing deeply. “For years, I’ve debated on what I’d tell you if you ever showed up.”

Geralt raised up a little straighter in his chair. He saw that she now wore a small frown.

“But I think you deserve the truth,” she continued with a nod of her head. “No matter how much it might hurt.”

The witcher squinted his eyes at the woman across from him.

“Geralt, your mother’s not dead, but…you two can’t be together.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

The priestess sighed deeply.

“Your mother was an incredibly skilled alchemist and healer. She also possessed some innate magical powers. It was only because of those powers and her knowledge that she was able to conceive you.”

He furrowed his brows.

“I don’t understand.”

“Visenna was infertile – like virtually all sorceresses. She told us that she’d experimented with her alchemy and magical spells for years and years until she had finally found a cure.”

“Okay…but what’s that got to do with why she and I can’t be together?”

“I’m not a sorceress so I don’t comprehend it fully, but she said that magic is very unpredictable. She said that it’s a chaotic, living energy and that it doesn’t like to be controlled. And because of that, harnessing it - using it – always exacts a cost. So, somehow, in a way she never could explain, she was having a negative, magical reaction to…” the priestess paused and took a breath, “…to you.”

The teenager didn’t say anything. He just shook his head, a confused look on his face.

“She told us that at first she wasn’t even aware of it. That the illness…or reaction started out mild. But as you got older, she realized that the more she was around you, the sicker she was getting. She did some experiments where she’d leave you with a neighbor friend for a day and her health immediately started to improve. But when she brought you back, well…”

For several moments, neither spoke. They just looked into each other’s eyes. Finally, the witcher swallowed.

“So, what you’re saying is…that I was killing my mother.”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I would never phrase it like that,” she said with a frown. “And neither did she. It was magic that was keeping you a part.”

“Doesn’t matter how you phrase it,” he growled, with a shake of his head. “Bottom line is - if she stayed in my presence, she was going to die, right?”

After a moment, Nenneke simply nodded in response.

“But, Geralt, you should know that she did everything she could to find a cure for it. She just…she just never was successful. So, her plan was to bring you here and let us care for you and raise you while she continued to work on finding a cure, but…”

“But then _the gods_ stepped in,” interrupted Geralt, a small sneer on his face.

The priestess didn’t say anything.

“So, she’s alive?”

“As far as I know,” Nenneke answered. “We were able to nurse her back to health from the monster attacks, and she stayed here with us a while, but she eventually left us. She never said where she was going.”

Geralt looked up at the ceiling and breathed in deeply before eventually looking back at the priestess.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway,” he replied with a small shake of his head.

He then looked away from her. He nodded a few times before returning his eyes to hers.

“Well…I guess that’s it then. My search is over – unless I want to kill her,” he said, and then he slowly stood up. “Thank you for your time.”

But before he could turn to the door, she stopped him.

“Wait, Geralt. Before you go…”

She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out two objects and placed them on the middle of the desk.

“You had a bit of a wait at the front gate because I was looking for these,” she said.

One was a parchment that was folded and sealed with a small blob of wax. The other was a silver brooch. Geralt’s eyes shifted quickly between the two objects, and then he looked at Nenneke.

“She left these for you,” she said.

When Geralt didn’t immediately move to reach for them, she added, “Go on. They’re yours.”

As the teenager stared at the two objects, he suddenly realized that he was breathing fast and shallow. He glanced at the priestess one more time before leaning forward and grasping an object in each hand – the brooch in his left and the letter in his right. He slowly sat back down in the chair and brought the two mementos onto his lap. The first thing he noticed was his name written on the outside of the parchment. The ink was faded but still legible.

_“My mother wrote that,”_ he thought to himself. _“My mother.”_

His eyes moved to the brooch in his other hand, and, suddenly, a memory rushed into his mind.

_“Mama,” said Geralt as he and Visenna sat at their table eating lunch, “why do you always wear that butterfly?”_

_She glanced down at the brooch, smiled warmly at her son, and then placed her spoon in her bowl. She slowly reached up and removed the brooch from her thread-bare dress._

_She leaned over and held the piece of jewelry closer to Geralt so that he could see it better._

_“I wear it because it reminds me of you.”_

_“But, why? I’m not a butterfly,” said the five-year old._

_“No, you’re not,” she agreed with a smile. “But you are my miracle.”_

_The little boy furrowed his brow and slightly shook his head._

_“Here, let me explain,” she said before moving her chair next to his so that they were sitting side-by-side._

_“Well, you may already know this, but butterflies don’t start out as butterflies. They begin their lives as something called a caterpillar. And caterpillars look nothing like this,” she said as she pointed at her brooch. “You’ve seen caterpillars before, right?”_

_“Uh huh,” he replied, nodding his head. “They look kind of like a worm.”_

_“That’s right. They’re drab colored – either gray or green – and they have no wings or even real legs so they just crawl around like worms do. But at some point, they go through an incredible, miraculous transformation. They hide themselves inside of a cocoon, and when they come out, they’re completely changed. They have beautiful wings – so full of vibrant colors. Wings that allow them to fly on the wind. Wings that give them freedom.”_

_Geralt was taking it all in._

_“Okay,” he said, “but I’m not a butterfly. I don’t have wings.”_

_“No, you don’t, but it reminds me of you because before you came along, my life was like a caterpillar. It was dull and drab, moving along inch by inch. But when I had you, my life completely changed. Being your mother gives me so much joy and excitement. It’s like my heart is just exploding with all kinds of colors – just like the colors of a butterfly’s wings. Having you as my son is like flying on the wind.”_

_At that point, she reached up one hand and tenderly ran her fingers through his hair._

_“I actually bought this brooch a few years before you were born. I bought it when I knew that I wanted to have you. For a long time, it just represented hope. The hope of one day having you. But, now, it just represents you. Do you understand?”_

_Geralt wore a confused expression and just shrugged his shoulders, which made Visenna laugh._

_“Well, hopefully, one day you will understand. But, until then, just know that I love wearing it because it makes me think of you. And I love you…so very, very much.”_

_She then bent down and hugged her son and kissed the top of his head._

The witcher cleared his throat and swallowed hard as the memory ended. He continued to stare at the brooch for several long moments before, eventually, turning his attention to the letter in his other hand. He carefully broke the wax seal, and as he opened the parchment, he noticed that his hands were slightly trembling. He swallowed hard again and looked down at the words on the page.

_My dearest Geralt,_

_If you’re reading this, then I was right. I know that you’ll one day come to the temple in Ellander. Fate brought you into my life. Unfortunately, it also took you away from me. And I know it will eventually bring you here._

_Please know that you are my miracle and my greatest blessing. Having to give you up was the cruelest day of my life, but I am so grateful for the five years that I had with you. And know that, no matter where I am, no matter where you are, I will always, always love you._

_It’s been months since I saw you last, and I miss you more today than the day we said goodbye. I will always miss you and wonder how you are doing. I will always worry if you’re safe. But I’ll never have to wonder what kind of man you’ll grow to be. I know that you’ll be a man of courage and honor and kindness – because those qualities have always been inside of you. You will always be my little knight._

_And I will always be your proud and loving Mama._

After reading the letter, the teenager just sat in the chair for the longest time, breathing heavily and staring at the parchment on his lap. Nenneke didn’t say a word. In fact, she was being so quiet that he forgot she was even there. Eventually, he slowly folded the parchment closed and carefully placed it and the brooch back on the table. He brought his eyes up to meet those of the priestess, and he clearly saw pity in them, which made him clench his jaws. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly stood.

“Thank you for your time,” he said and then turned toward the door.

He’d only taken a step when Nenneke called out, “Geralt, wait.”

When he turned back to look at her, he noticed her furrowed brows and small frown.

“Are you not going to take these with you? Visenna meant for you to have them.”

She was pointing at the letter and the brooch.

Geralt slowly shook his head, his eyes boring into hers.

“I’m a witcher,” he said, contempt dripping from his words. “And the Path is no place for silly mementos.”

He then looked down to the floor.

“No place for sentimental dreams,” he whispered to himself.

Nenneke immediately moved from behind her desk and approached the monster-slayer. She came up close to him, slightly invading his space – so close that she had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

“Then, I’ll keep them for you, okay?” she said. “They’ll always be here for you. And whenever you need a respite from the Path, please know that my doors will always be open for you.”

He furrowed his brows as he looked down into her green eyes – eyes that looked just like his mother’s.

“Why? Why do you even care?”

Nenneke gave him a small smile.

“Your mother was a good woman, Geralt. In the year that she was here, she saved many lives with her healing abilities, and she taught me a lot about alchemy and medicine. During that time, we became close friends. So, I’d like to be your friend, too.”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just continued to look into the small woman’s face.

“Besides, everyone – even a witcher – needs hopes and dreams. Life’s not worth living without them. So, when you need a break from the Path, you’re always welcome here. This can be a safe haven for you – a place to rest, to remember…and to hope and dream, okay?”

As she said the last, she extended her hand. The two of them stood there for the longest time, just staring into each other’s eyes. Finally, the teenager inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He glanced down at her hand before making eye-contact again.

“Farewell,” he said, and then he reached out and quickly shook her hand. 

He immediately turned and walked out of her office, and as he passed through the doorway, he heard her say behind him, “Farewell, Geralt. May Mother Melitele watch over you.”

The witcher strode purposefully down the hall, out the temple door and along the stone path. He stopped for just a moment and looked at the gardens on either side of the walkway. He recognized them. They were clearly the gardens that had been in the vision of his mother all those years ago. He assumed that, somewhere within, were the white, marble birdbath and matching bench upon which Visenna had sat. He still didn’t even know how that vision had happened. It must have been some kind of magic, he figured. But, honestly, at that point, he didn’t even care anymore. He quickly shook his head and continued walking. 

He exited the main gate, approached Roach, and put his hands up on the saddle. He was just about to mount his horse, when he stopped and gritted his teeth – watching his hands tremble in rage…in fear…in anguish. He closed his eyes and stood there, silent and still for the longest time, as thoughts ran through his mind. Finally, he opened his eyes and reached into the pocket of his trousers. He slowly pulled out the witcher medallion. He breathed in and out, slow and steady, as he stared at the magical wolf-head. Eventually, he sighed.

“Accept it,” he whispered through clenched jaws. “Just…bloody-well accept it.”

He breathed deeply a few more times, and, with a small shake of his head, he reached up and placed the silver medallion around his neck, letting it rest against his chest. He then climbed into the saddle and slowly rode away.

oOo

_Hengfors - Fall 1194_

Geralt sat at a small table in the corner of the tavern with the cowl of his cloak over his head. His back was to the wall so that he could easily see the few patrons at the other tables. The breakfast rush had passed, and it was still several hours before the lunch crowd would come in, so the tavern was mostly empty. But he wasn’t there to meet a patron about a witcher contract. He was in the tavern for another reason, and his eyes stayed focused on one person in particular. It had taken him a long time to finally find her. 

The waitress looked to be in her mid-twenties and was tall and thick. Not fat, but ‘big-boned.’ She had a round face with puppy dog eyes, and her brown hair was pulled back in a pony-tail. And she had a perpetual smile on her lips. He’d been in the tavern the night before, as well, and it had been incredibly busy. But no matter how boisterous or demanding the clientele became, she seemed to never get flustered, the smile rarely leaving her face. She had a quick laugh and warm demeanor that could win over even the most belligerent of customers. There was a tranquil peace about her, thought Geralt - a peace that was completely foreign to him. A peace he didn’t know and that he feared he’d never know.

Eventually, the waitress came over to his table.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, sir?” she asked as she picked up his empty plate.

He nodded.

“Well, is there anything else I can get for you?”

The witcher didn’t answer. He just shook his head before slowly reaching out a closed hand and placing it on top of the table. He opened his hand and pulled it back towards him. Left behind was a coin for the meal and small necklace – a wooden, fish-shaped pendant on a simple, leather strip.

Geralt looked at the waitress’s face and, then, a moment later, he saw her eyes go wide. She reached out a shaking hand out and picked up the necklace. She quickly looked at the witcher.

“Eugene?” she asked in a fearful voice.

Geralt slowly lowered the cowl, revealing his face. He shook his head.

“No.”

She sat down in the chair across from him, and he saw her staring into his cat-like eyes.

“If you have this,” she said, her eyes dropping to the necklace in her hands, “then…”

“He didn’t make it,” the witcher said, finishing her thought. “But he would’ve wanted you to have that. You were just about the only thing he talked about, and he prayed for you every night.”

Suddenly, a small gasp escaped from her throat, and tears filled her eyes. 

“I knew. When years went by…and he didn’t come see me, I knew.”

She lowered her head, peering at the pendant in her hand, and Geralt didn’t have anything to say in response so he just nodded his head. After a moment, she brought her eyes back up to his.

“You must have known him well…to come all this way…to want to give me this.”

The teenager nodded, and he stared at the waitress for several seconds – looking into her face. A face that looked so much like her little brother’s. 

“He was my best friend. He was tender hearted…and good…and trusting. He would have made a terrible witcher.”

Milka nodded her head, and her tears finally broke free and fell down her cheeks.

Geralt sat there for a few more minutes, answering the questions that she had – though he didn’t go into any of the details about what her little brother had gone through at Kaer Morhen. He was going to spare her that. Eventually, when she ran out of questions, he stood up from his chair and was about to move from the table when Milka reached out and placed her hand on his forearm.

“Wait. I didn’t get your name.”

“It’s Geralt.”

“Well, I want to thank you for this, Geralt. I know that you didn’t have to do it, but I’m so grateful you did. It means the world to me. And…and you’ll always have a hot meal and a place to stay in Hengfors, okay? Always. It’s the least I can do.”

The teen looked at the woman and slowly nodded his head.

“Okay,” he said, but he knew he’d never take her up on her offer. She reminded him too much of Eugene, and that hurt just too damn much. 

A moment later, as he exited the front door of the tavern, he realized that there was only one more thing he had to do. It was time to head east – to Kaedwen.

oOo

_The witcher rode his horse toward the village at a canter, Roach’s hooves kicking up clouds of dust in her wake. He would have spurred her into a gallop except for fear of her weak, front leg faltering under the stress. He turned slightly in the saddle and looked over his shoulder, scanning the rural terrain behind them, but he saw nothing but a gently-sloping mountainside dotted with trees and all sorts of other flora. The wide, dirt road down which they were traveling snaked its way higher up into the steeper areas of the mountains, stopping at various mining camps, all of which were currently empty. There’d been no work in the mines for several weeks, ever since some miners had disturbed monster nests hidden deep within the mountain. Close to a dozen of the workers never made it back to the surface, and it had been at that point that the owner of the mining operation had posted a notice for a witcher._

_Geralt kept his eyes on the mountainside for a second longer, and then he looked down at the trophy hanging off of the back of Roach’s saddle – or, more specifically, the three trophies. Bouncing off the side of his horse’s flank were the heads of three, incredibly large spiders – also known as arachnomorphs. Each head was easily the size of that of a grown man. The three trophies were held together in some loose netting that was tied into a knot at the top and secured tightly to the hook on Roach’s saddle. The horse’s back leg where the trophies hung was stained red, for every time the three heads bounced, numerous drops of monster blood fell from the spiders’ wounds onto either Roach’s hair or the ground below. Seeing that, the witcher gave a slight nod of his head and then turned to face forward in the saddle._

_Ten minutes later, the witcher and his horse sped into the village and quickly made their way to the cabin of the mining company located near the center of the small town. There were several miners on the porch of the cabin, and upon seeing the witcher’s arrival, one of them made his way through the front door. A moment later, the owner – Anders Sapko - walked out onto the porch. He was a middle-aged man with a pot-belly and a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache whose ends hung down past his lower lip. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing the three giant spider heads._

_“Sweet Lebioda,” he said, before rubbing his hand down over his thick mustache and droopy jowls._

_He looked at the witcher._

_“Is that all of them?” he asked nervously._

_The monster-slayer shook his head._

_“There were close to a dozen of them in the mines,” he answered. “Didn’t feel like bringing back every head. You want the rest of the trophies, you know where to find them.”_

_The witcher noticed that Sapko was, suddenly, no longer looking him in the face. His eyes had dropped and were focused on his left arm – right above the wrist - and then they shifted downward even more to view his left hand. The monster-slayer glanced at his wrist – the gambeson there ripped and stained red - and then he quickly looked down to see a drop of his own blood dripping off his fingertips. He slowly and carefully wiped the blood on his trousers. When he looked back up, he noticed Sapko making eye-contact with the men on either side of him._

_“Tough fight then?” asked Sapko, licking his lips._

_The monster-slayer gave a barely-perceptible shrug._

_“Had worse.”_

_“Well, why don’t you come on inside? We can help clean up that arm, and I’ll pay you what you’re owed.”_

_The witcher glanced at Sapko’s men on the porch and then back to the owner standing in the middle. He slowly shook his head._

_“Prefer not,” answered the monster-slayer. “My leg is injured, too. Rather not walk on it right now.”_

_It was a lie. His leg wasn’t injured at all. He was simply testing them. The witcher easily noticed all the men’s eyes automatically shift towards his legs, searching for a wound._

_Suddenly, Roach’s ears perked straight up. She snorted, jerked her head, and stamped her hooves several times causing Geralt to have to tighten his grip on her reins to get her under control. Finally, he looked back at Sapko._

_“We can conclude our business right here and now,” said the witcher._

_The owner of the mines looked at his men again and then squinted his eyes at the witcher. Eventually, he nodded his head._

_“Suit yourself.”_

_He reached into a front pocket of his coat and pulled out a coin purse. He opened the bag and dumped out a fistful of coins into his left hand. After putting those coins back into his coat pocket, he closed the bag and tossed it at the monster-killer. The witcher snatched the bag out of the air without ever even taking his eyes off of Sapko. He continued to stare at the man for several long seconds before he finally spoke._

_“I’ve been on the Path for a while now. Long enough that I don’t really even have to count coins anymore. I can tell if I’m being cheated just by the weight of the bag,” he said, holding the coin purse in his palm. "And this definitely feels light.”_

_“‘Cheated’ is such an ugly word,” Sapko said with small smile. “I prefer the term ‘renegotiation.’ You see, witcher, the town’s fallen on hard times. We have -”_

_“Spare me your bullshit,” interrupted the witcher. “I’ve heard it all. Bottom line is – you’ve got no honor…but I’m not surprised. I knew you’d go back on your word the moment you opened your mouth. Could see it in your beady, little eyes.”_

_The witcher put the coin bag in the front pocket of his gambeson._

_“But that’s alright,” growled the monster-slayer. “You’ll reap what you sow.”_

_Upon hearing that, all the miners on the porch grabbed weapons – either axes or pick-axes – that had been resting against the wall behind them._

_“Just try it, witcher,” said Sapko, his voice defiant and with a small sneer. “If you harm even a one of us, Duke Bertrand’s men will hunt you down. We sent word to him this morning that we were dealing with you. You’re in his duchy now, and know this - he’s never taken to your kind. Considers you nothing more than a necessary evil.”_

_The monster-slayer shook his head._

_“All this…over some money,” he said, barely above a whisper._

_He then reached behind him and grabbed the three spiders’ heads off the hook. He shook the netting a few times and a dozen or more drops of blood fell and soaked into the ground at Roach’s feet. He swung his arm in a big arc and flung the heads on top of the porch’s roof. Sapko and his men all looked at each other, clearly confused by the action._

_The monster-slayer looked each man in the eyes before coming back to Sapko in the middle. A small but predatory smile slowly came upon the witcher’s face, which sent shivers down Sapko’s spine._

_“Don’t worry, swindler,” said Geralt. “I’m not going to draw my sword on you. Because unlike you, I’m a man of principle…so I’m not gonna kill you over a few coins. But that doesn’t mean I have to save you worthless pieces of shit…out of the kindness of my heart. So, know this - those three heads that I just tossed up there...those were just the babies. And since I knew you’d cheat me, I let their momma live. And let me tell you – she’s twice their size, and she’s really angry – especially considering I cut off one of her legs.”_

_Then, his smile grew meaner._

_“But that’s okay - she can survive with only seven legs. And she’ll be coming this way any minute now. I left a nice trail for her to follow…right to your door.”_

_Suddenly, Roach became agitated again, and Geralt had to grab the reins with both hands to get her under control. Finally, he got her calm enough that he was able to look at Sapko again._

_“In fact, I can hear her coming right now. She’s getting real close,” said Geralt, with the smile still on his face._

_Then his face turned grave._

_“You only pay for half the contract, then you only get half the contract. So, reap it, asshole.”_

_With a snap of the reins, he urged Roach into a canter in the opposite direction from which they had entered the village. As he rode off, the witcher could hear several shouts from the men behind him. But he could hear one voice over them all._

_“Witcher! Come back!” Sapko yelled. “Come back! I’ll pay you what I owe! I’ll pay you what I owe!”_

_“Oh, you’re gonna pay,” the monster-slayer whispered to himself. “No doubt about that.”_

oOo

_Kaer Morhen - Winter 1194_

“You really lured that mother arachnomorph right into the village?” asked Eskel.

“Damn, Geralt,” said Groesbeck, Eskel’s friend and a fellow velpe. “That’s was some cold-hearted shit.”

Geralt shrugged.

“They got what they deserved.”

Geralt sat at a long table inside of the great hall of the keep. Across from him sat the two velpen and Master Vesemir. They’d been there for at least a half an hour, having him recount his tales from his experiences on the Path.

“That’s an understatement,” agreed Groesbeck, after a short chuckle. “And I’m not condemning you for it. If they actually lived, they’ll think twice about ever cheating a witcher again. So, I love what you did.”

“And what if he hadn’t short-changed you?” asked Vesemir.

Geralt shook his head at his mentor.

“There was never any doubt,” he said. “I could see it in his eyes. He might as well have had ‘cheat’ written across his forehead.”

Then, he shrugged.

“And if I was wrong…no big deal. I would’ve gone out to meet the mama-arachas before she made it to the village.”

He looked squarely into the old witcher’s eyes.

“You tried your best to warn me…that the world has no honor. But I didn’t listen…because I didn’t _want_ to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that the world out there was no different than the one in here. So, I had to learn the hard way…and learn I have. If I want justice in this gods-forsaken world, then I’m gonna have to grab it myself…cause no one’s gonna give it to me. That’s for damn sure.”

Vesemir nodded.

“Sounds like you’re finally ready for the last step, then,” he said.

“And just what step is that?” asked Geralt.

“The Trial of the Medallion,” Vesemir answered, and he pointed to the wolf-head medallion resting against Geralt’s chest. “I want mine back.”

“Right,” said Geralt. “Forgot about that.”

“I bet you did,” said Vesemir, his tone indicating that he clearly didn’t believe the teen. “And then after that, you need to think about picking a fuller name. Simply going by ‘Geralt’ isn’t enough. That _might_ be playing a part in why people keep trying to cheat you. Folk will respect you more…and trust you more if they think you’re actually from somewhere. Makes you…more human. In their eyes, at least.”

Geralt was quiet for several moments, looking down at the table in front of him and clearly lost in his thoughts. 

Finally, his eyes came back up to meet those of his mentor, and he said, “Geralt of Rivia.”

“‘Geralt of Rivia.’ Huh, that’s got a nice ring to it,” said Eskel with a nod. “But why Rivia? Is that where you’re actually from?”

The white-haired witcher looked at his friend and slowly shook his head.

“No,” he said before sighing slightly. “I’m a witcher…so I’m not _from_ anywhere, unless you count this place.”

He swallowed and nodded his head.

“This is where I was born.”

“Then why Rivia?” asked Groesbeck.

Geralt shrugged.

“It’s as good a place as any.”

Suddenly, Geralt heard the door to the keep open behind him, followed immediately by Eskel whispering, “Great,” under his breath.

A moment later, the hall was filled with a deep, rumbling laugh. It was a laugh that Geralt knew well. And one that he loathed. He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and then stood and turned around as Kalen approached. 

“Well, well, the Piss Boy returns. I thought I smelled pussy,” said the one-eyed witcher. “I’m surprised you’re even still alive. Figured you be drowner droppings by now.”

Geralt didn’t say anything. He just stared up at his former tormentor. Despite the fact that the teenager had grown a couple of more inches in the last year, the ugly bastard was still taller than him, and he had a handful of PMs behind him. Ones that, Geralt had no doubt, he was trying to mold into regular whoresons just like himself.

“Well, I’m happy to disappoint you,” Geralt eventually said, his voice cold.

“Yeah, you’re good at that – being a disappointment,” Kalen said with a smile. “I doubt you’ve even completed a single contract since you’ve been gone. Probably could only find work in some run-down brothel – on your knees.” 

The scarred man then let out another deep laugh.

“How about it, Piss Boy? I bet I’ve got spare oren on me. Wanna get on your knees and show us how good you are?”

A smirk was on his face, and he quickly glanced at the velpen behind him before bringing his gaze back to the white-haired teenager in front of him.

“Oh, hell, you probably enjoy doing it so much that you’ll do it for free, won’t you?”

Geralt continued to do nothing but stare into Kalen’s left eye and breathe very slowly. 

“Master Vesemir?” he finally said, his eyes still boring into that of the scarred witcher.

“Yes, Geralt,” said the older witcher from behind.

“Promise me that – no matter what happens - you won’t interfere this time.”

A couple seconds of silence followed. Then, Geralt heard the old man sigh.

“I promise.”

Immediately, Geralt’s fist shot forward right into Kalen’s face. Bone and cartilage snapped and blood gushed forth from his disfigured nose as he fell hard onto his backside on the stone floor. The big man shook his head several times – as if clearing cobwebs from his mind. He brought his hand to his nose and looked down at the blood on his fingers. He slowly brought his one good eye up to look at the white-haired monster-slayer.

Geralt had his steel sword unsheathed, its tip pointing directly at Kalen’s face.

“Get up,” he growled. “We’re gonna finally finish this.”

Immediately, those sitting at the table stood up, and they – along with the PM’s who had been with Kalen - backed away, giving the two enemies plenty of space.

A bloody, hideous smile came to Kalen’s face as he looked up at Geralt from the seated position.

“Well, well, look at the big balls on the Piss Boy,” he said after spitting blood from his mouth. “Thought you’d learned your lesson last time.”

Kalen drew his own steel sword and slowly began to get to his feet. He was still looking down at the stone floor and just rising to his full height when he suddenly threw his left hand forward. A flame of Igni fire blasted forth toward Geralt, but the teenager was no longer there.

As soon as he’d seen the one-eyed witcher’s hand begin to move, he’d rolled forward and to his left completely avoiding the Igni flames. He came out of the roll on one knee and thrust his sword forward. Kalen let loose with a yell as Geralt’s blade pierced straight through the big man’s right knee. In a flash, he withdrew his sword and was moving again.

As Kalen was falling to the floor, Geralt was already up on both feet and circling behind him. The scarred witcher was down on one knee, and his right hand – still holding his sword - was on the floor, supporting his weight.

“I did learn my lesson,” growled the teenager. “That you’re a cowardly, miserable whoreson without a shred of honor.”

Immediately, he hopped forward and ran his blade through the elbow of Kalen’s right arm, almost cutting the arm in half. The one-eyed witcher howled again as he fell face first onto the stone floor. 

“Get on your feet, you piece of filth,” snarled Geralt.

Kalen quickly rolled over and cast another Igni, but the teenager had anticipated it and had already skipped to the side. He thrust his blade into Kalen’s left shoulder, and before Kalen could even roar out in pain, the younger witcher was moving again.

“You’re pathetic,” said the teenage witcher, glaring down into Kalen’s eye. “When your sneak attacks don’t work, then you’ve got nothing. And you still haven’t even _tried_ to use your sword against me. You should be ashamed. You’re no real witcher at all. I’m actually embarrassed for you.”

The black-haired monster-slayer was on his back, blood not only still pouring from his nose but also from the three other wounds. He rolled over onto his side and then used his sword to help him get back onto his feet. He was clearly putting almost all of his weight on his left leg, and he carried his sword in his left hand. His right arm hung limply down by his side. He turned slowly and brought his eye towards Geralt.

Immediately, the teenager attacked. Kalen brought his sword up, but Geralt’s powerful, two-handed strike knocked the injured, weaker man’s sword from his grip. A fraction of a second later, the white-haired monster-slayer signed an Aard and blasted Kalen through the air. He crashed down on top of the wooden table, and before he’d even had time to move, Geralt was above him, driving the blade of his sword straight through his left arm, pinning it to the wood underneath and causing the bloody man to roar again in pain. Geralt instantly let go of the handle of the sword, and as he grasped Kalen’s right wrist in his left hand and kept it immobilized on the table, he began pummeling the scarred witcher’s face with his right fist. 

In that moment, all the pent-up rage Geralt had ever felt came pouring out. The rage at the unfairness of life – of being taken from his mother; of the years of systematic abuse at Kaer Morhen; of Eugene’s public whipping and death; of the slaughter of Bogor and his family; of Delyla’s lies and betrayal; of finding out that his mother was alive but that – in spite of that - he could never be with her again. And the hateful, one-eyed man embodied it all.

As Geralt continued to repeatedly drive his fist into Kalen’s face, he suddenly yelled out at the top of his lungs – his roar of anguish getting louder with every blow and echoing throughout the great hall for several long seconds. At that point, he was in a complete frenzy and wasn’t even aware at his surroundings anymore. But as the last of his shout escaped from his lungs, he suddenly came back to himself. Breathing heavy, he shook his head slightly and refocused his eyes on the man below him. Kalen’s face was an absolute, bloody mess, but Geralt could see that his one good eye was still open and glaring right at him.

And then he heard a rumbling sound coming from the injured witcher’s throat. Eventually, he realized that Kalen was laughing. He furrowed his brow and stared down at Kalen in confusion, which only made the scarred witcher laugh some more. The laughter only stopped when Kalen suddenly coughed - spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

Kalen stared at Geralt and smiled - a bloody, now partially toothless smile.

“Good…that’s good,” he said in a garbled voice. “And, now, you can thank me.”

“Thank you?” snarled Geralt. “What the hell would I ever thank you for?”

“Because I _made_ you, boy, that’s why. You’re only here because of me. How do you think you actually survived this place all those years when you were nothing but a weak, scrawny, little shit? Because of _me_ , that’s how. You may have hated me – hell, you still do – but it hardened you…made you a survivor. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you…but it looks like you learned my lessons, after all. Gave you some steel in your spine. Maybe you have the makings of a witcher, after all.”

He then coughed up more blood.

“Now, either get the hell off of me…or go ahead and finish it,” he ordered. “If you got the balls. Then, maybe one day, you can take my place – teaching other witchers what it takes to survive.”

Geralt glared into to Kalen’s eye. He clenched his jaw and slowed his breathing. After a few seconds, he finally spoke

“You’re so full of shit. You didn’t torture me to make me strong. You only did it because you enjoyed it,” he said. “And I will never, _ever_ be like you. I learned _nothing_ from you – except for how to be cruel. You’re worse than any monster I’ve ever met. They just do what’s in their nature. But you - you actually take _pleasure_ in causing others pain.”

He shook his head.

“I will _never_ be like you.”

Kalen laughed.

“You’re lying, boy. We both know you’re _loving_ this. You’ve dreamed for years of making me bleed.”

Geralt glared at Kalen some more and finally shook his head again.

“You’re wrong. This is justice – for Bogor and his family,” he growled. “And death is too good for you.”

Suddenly, and without any kind of warning, he quickly jammed his thumb into Kalen’s eye and gouged the orb completely out of its socket.

As the older witcher screamed out in pain, Geralt pulled upward on his sword with his left hand, leapt off the table, and then moved back several paces. He stared at Kalen writhing and wailing in agony on top of the table, and, after several long moments, he dropped the eyeball to the stone floor of the hall.

“You know what – you might be right,” the white-haired witcher said eventually with a small sneer coming to his face. “Because I _really_ am enjoying watching you suffer. Justice feels even better than I thought it would.”

He then peered down at the floor, the eyeball catching his attention. He took a small step to the side and brought his boot down on top of the orb, slowly grinding it into the hard stone beneath. When he looked back up, he noticed that the hall was much more occupied than before. The commotion had obviously drawn a crowd. There were nearly two dozen witchers of varying ages standing in a group – all staring alternately at either Kalen or Geralt. Some – the recently-mutated PM’s – he didn’t recognize, but the rest he did, which brought a scowl to his face.

“Anybody got anything to say?” he growled. “No? Anybody else want to call me Piss Boy?”

Nobody said a word.

“Any other cute nicknames?”

The hall stayed silent except for Kalen’s cries of pain.

Geralt slowly nodded his head.

“Didn’t think so.”

At that, he turned and made his way toward the front entrance of the keep. As he got to the large, wooden doors, he heard a voice from behind him.

“Geralt, wait!”

The teenager turned back to see his mentor approaching him. He looked past the old witcher to see that no one else was heading in his direction. Most had crowded around Kalen. The ugly whoreson was still howling in pain, which infused Geralt with a tremendous sense of satisfaction.

“Look, you don’t have to leave. If you’re worried about anyone’s reaction over that -” and he pointed a thumb over his shoulder towards Kalen “- don’t. No one’s ever liked that son-of-a-bitch.”

“I’m not worried. A witcher knows no fear,” responded Geralt. “But I’ve done what I came to do…so now it’s time to go.”

“Go? Go where?” asked Vesemir

“I’m going home.”

Vesemir furrowed his brow.

“But you _are_ home. Kaer Morhen’s your home.”

Geralt slowly shook his head.

“This’ll never be my home. It’s nothing but a breeding ground of…torture and tyranny. The Path…that’s the only home I have now,” he answered.

The teenager reached up to remove the wolf-head medallion from around his neck, but Vesemir raised a hand and shook his head. To Geralt’s surprise, he thought that he could see actual sadness on his mentor’s face.

“No, Geralt, you keep it.”

He looked into Vesemir’s eyes and gave a small nod. After a moment, he peered over the older witcher’s head, and his eyes scanned the great hall. After a small shake of his head, he looked back at his mentor.

“You were right, you know. Right about…hell, just about everything.”

Geralt thought that the old man would smile at that, but he didn’t. In fact, his face seemed to grow sadder.

“Well, that must have been painful to admit.”

“You’ll never know.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Geralt…sorry that I was right.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“Think you’ll ever come back?”

Geralt sighed.

“Doubtful. There’s just too many bad memories here. But, hell, who knows what the future holds. I once thought I knew everything, but now…I don’t even know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. So, who knows?”

Vesemir nodded, and then he removed the glove from his right hand and extended it out in front of him.

Geralt looked at the hand for a second before, eventually, reaching out and gripping it in his own. The two witchers stood still and silent for several long moments, simply looking into each other’s eyes. Finally, Geralt gave a small nod of his head and released his grip. 

“Farewell, Master Vesemir.”

“Farewell, Geralt.”

And then the witcher turned and exited the castle, firmly shutting the doors behind him. 

oOo

Geralt slowly rode Roach through the outer gate of the Wolf-School stronghold and down along the mountain trail. He looked up into the afternoon sky – a slate-gray, winter sky with the sun totally obscured by thick, storm clouds. As he continued down the path, he slightly nodded his head at the sight. For he thought the weather was appropriate. Even though he knew it wasn’t accurate – even though he knew the sun had routinely shone at Kaer Morhen - every memory he had of the place was dark and full of pain.

Several minutes later, his sensitive hearing picked up a noise coming from the tree line on the slope to his left, and a few seconds after that, Roach immediately neighed and became skittish. He tightened his grip on her reins and whispered softly to her.

“Easy, girl. Easy.”

Eventually, he got her under control, and his eyes scanned the tree line above him. He could hear a low, rumbling growl coming from somewhere close, but he couldn’t see the beast. His eyes continued to flick back and forth until he finally saw it – a pair of animal-eyes staring right at him from the deep shadows. While maintaining eye-contact the entire time with the creature, he reached down with his left hand and gently rubbed his filly’s neck. 

“It’s okay, Roach,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

The muscles under her skin twitched in response.

A moment later, a wolf took several steps forward - out of the darkness and cover of the trees - and revealed itself. Its fur was light-gray, and it was all alone.

The witcher and the wolf stared at each other for the longest time, neither moving or making a sound. Then, slowly, the wolf seemed to lower its head just a fraction of an inch. Geralt furrowed his brows, and then gave a slight nod of his head. At that, the wolf raised up straight, lifted its head toward the sky, and let loose with a mournful howl. Roach immediately reared up and stamped her hooves in agitation, causing Geralt to shorten his grip on the reins. By the time he got her calm and back under control, when he looked back at the tree line, the wolf was long gone.

He reached down and petted his horse tenderly along her neck.

“It’s okay, girl,” he said. “He meant us no harm. He was just curious.”

Suddenly, he heard another howl coming from higher up in the mountains. Geralt looked up and scanned the terrain but couldn’t see the wolf anywhere. And he heard no howls in response. A minute later, he’d still not heard any response to the wolf’s call. The mountain range remained still and silent.

“Looks like he’s alone, girl,” he whispered. “Maybe he’s just lonely.”

He then let out a sigh and slightly lowered his head.

“Maybe he’s just lonely,” he whispered to himself.

The teen sat there in the saddle for a moment, and then he reached inside of his gambeson and carefully pulled out a folded parchment. He gently unfolded the piece of paper, and as he looked down at it, a memory played through his mind.

_“Witcher! Come back! I’ll pay! I’ll pay!”_

_Geralt heard the fat man’s shouts coming from behind him but paid them no mind. Sapko would get what he deserved, and hopefully all of his armed men, too. It’d serve them right for associating with the cheating, dishonorable bastard. They had no excuse. They knew exactly who they were working for, thought the witcher._

_A moment later, Roach neighed loudly and stamped her hooves as cries of terror echoed from the far side of the small village, and a smile – one that would elicit nothing but dread in anyone who viewed it - came to the monster-slayer’s face. It sounded like the giant, venomous, mother arachnomorph had finally arrived._

_The monster-slayer continued to trot his horse past a few cabins and towards the edge of town when, suddenly, he heard a soft, feminine voice call out to him from behind._

_“Master Witcher! Master Witcher!”_

_‘Just ignore it,’ he thought to himself._

_“Wait, please. I have something for you,” the voice called out again._

_“Vekka! Come back here!” yelled another voice – also feminine but much older and much harsher._

_The witcher sighed and then gently pulled back on Roach’s reins. He slowly turned his horse around to look at whatever scene was going on behind him._

_A girl was running towards him while an older woman – obviously her mother – was standing at the front gate of their home, wringing her hands together with a nervous look plastered across her face._

_“Vekka! I said come back here!” the mother yelled again, still rooted in place._

_But the girl kept running towards the witcher. She suddenly stopped when she got within a few feet of him and Roach. He looked down at her and his breath momentarily caught in his throat. She wasn’t a little girl, after all. She was a young woman – perhaps, fourteen or fifteen years old – and he thought that she was absolutely beautiful. She had raven-black hair that fell in a cascade of loose curls down to her shoulders. Her triangular-shaped face had flawless skin and was slightly flushed from running, but it was her eyes he noticed most. They were the most unique color he’d ever seen. He thought that they were probably bluish-grey, but in the late afternoon light, they actually looked violet._

_“Master Witcher,” she said in between deep breaths. “I drew this for you.”_

_She held up a piece of paper towards him._

_He couldn’t stop staring at her, but he eventually broke his gaze and looked at the parchment in her hand before quickly bringing his eyes back to hers._

_“It’s for you,” she said, still holding the paper up for him._

_The small – and slightly insecure – smile on her face made it hard for him to breathe._

_He slowly reached down and grabbed the paper, still gazing at her the entire time. He sat back up straight in the saddle and finally took his eyes off the maiden to look at the drawing. The girl possessed sufficient artistic talent that he immediately recognized what it depicted. In the middle of the drawing was a white-haired witcher with a silver medallion on his chest and the hilts of two swords peaking over his back. Next to him was a short, raven-haired girl in a peasant’s blue dress – just like the one the girl was wearing now. The witcher in the drawing was holding his left hand out to his side, grasping the hand of the girl. Above the girl was her name – “Vekka.” And above him, she had written, “My Witcher.”_

_“I watched you ride off into the mountains this morning. I knew you’d save us,” she said. “My brave knight.”_

_Geralt quickly raised his head and squinted at the girl._

_“What did you say?” he asked in his gravelly voice._

_Vekka’s eyes immediately went wide and she took a small step back._

_“Wait. Please don’t go,” said Geralt quickly and as gently as he could. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”_

_He did his best to soften his demeanor._

_“I’m not angry. This…this is just the way my voice sounds,” he slightly stammered. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”_

_At that, the fear seemed to vanish from the girl’s face._

_“I just wanted to know…the last thing you said.”_

_The two were now staring into each other’s eyes._

_“I…I said that you were my knight,” she said softly._

_Instantly, her face reddened, and she quickly averted her eyes from his, looking down to the ground._

_Upon hearing her words, a memory flashed through the teenager’s mind. He saw his mother all those years ago sitting on her five-year old son’s bed._

_“I dub thee, Sir Geralt of Rivia,” he remembered Visenna saying. “A knight of courage and a defender of the downtrodden.”_

_Suddenly, he was brought out of the memory by shrill cries coming from the other side of the village. They were so loud that, this time, even Vekka heard them and turned in their direction. She then quickly turned back to look at the witcher, both fear and confusion on her face. Geralt looked intently into the girl’s eyes for several seconds before eventually shifting his gaze over her head towards the sounds of death and chaos coming from behind her. And then he sighed deeply._

_“Damn it,” he whispered to himself, with a small shake of his head. And then he reached for his sword._

A snowflake fell slowly from the slate-gray sky and landed on the drawing in the witcher’s hand, causing him to glance upward to see black, storm clouds right above. He looked back down at the parchment, and his eyes, as usual, were drawn to the raven-haired girl in the blue dress. He peered at the girl for the longest time, but, eventually, with a small sigh, he refolded the parchment and carefully tucked it away inside of his gambeson. Suddenly, he heard the wolf, once again, howl far off in the distance – its call echoing down out of the mountains and across the valley. 

The witcher rubbed his horse gently on the neck one more time, and then he brought his gaze upward and straight ahead. He let out another small sigh and gave a slight nod as he set his face towards the Path.

“Let’s go, Roach,” he said as he lightly flicked the reins. “Let’s go home.”

oOo

The End


End file.
